As Darkness Falls
by lotus-brody
Summary: A rash of murders has the Special Victim's Unit in mayhem, all vampiristic in nature. Is it simply a delusional man or something supernatural? Rated for violence, graphic torture and m/m relations. E/G Rated M. Chapter six up!
1. The Master and The Queen

Disclaimer: I do not own SVU, it belongs to someone else.

A Note: This story is a bit unlike everything that normally gets posted here. I've had the idea for awhile, but I was afraid to post anything for fear it wouldn't be received well. But after reading "I Am Dragon, Hear me Roar!" I've decided that it should be OK. It's loosely based off of the role playing game "Vampire: The Masquerade" and a lot of the terms like Embrace and Sire come from it. Also, it is E/G so if you don't like it don't read it. But I don't like E/O much and have secret dreams about Elliot confessing his love to George on the show one day, so there :P So no flaming please, I'll just ignore it.

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As Darkness Falls

Chapter One: The Master and The Queen

His body was hotter than the night which pressed in about them, muggy and demanding. His eyes were glazed in rapture, every iota of his being was focused on that intense pleasure, pleasure like he'd never felt before he broke. He barely perceived the contrast of the burning night and the cold body which pressed hard behind him. He moaned as he gave over to his climax, convulsing, and falling. Bloodied and wounded, the pain was ecstasy.

His corpse hit the ground.

From behind him rose a man in red leather. He quickly shed this tight outfit and another much larger man scooped it up and took it from him. He dressed quickly, picking at himself as he did so.

"He was fun," he giggled, "but... he broke too fast."

He surveyed himself, twisting about and trying to make sure there wasn't a single wrinkle on his attire. He slipped on a leather jacket and tied it firmly about his waist, tied a brightly covered scarf about his neck, and smoothed his hair.

"You look stunning, master," said the brick wall of a man, who had hung the leather away and had wrapped the body up.

Licking his lips the master tisked, and plucked his handkerchief up and wiped his mouth delicately, then applied a small amount of lip gloss.

"I just wish he lasted longer," he said wistfully.

"You are very strong, master," said the servant.

The master looked quickly about the apartment. The rest would be here soon. Nodding once he picked up a handbag and slung it over his shoulder and headed for the door.

"Come now Thomas, we've an appointment," said his master, smoothing his hair once more.

Thomas bowed as he headed to open the door for him. He was dressed sharply in an expensive suit and had his head completely shaved. The truly curious thing was the leather collar about his neck.

They left the dark studio apartment above a Chinese herbalists shop. A silver Lexus IS F was parked in front of the shop. Thomas unlocked the car with a quick click of the keys and held the back door open for his master, then entered the driver's side.

"I need stronger willed toys," said the master absently as they pulled away. "With a better constitution at that."

Thomas agreed with him.

His master smoothed his hair absentmindedly, and suppressed a yawn.

The night was young.

Dr. George Huang, a psychological profiler for the FBI, swigged his cold coffee and glanced over an old case file. It was providing some insight to the latest rash of murders that were sweeping the city and sending crime awareness groups into positive mayhem.

He didn't look up at the soft knock at the door and told them to come in, flipping a page and studying a picture of a rather deranged man whom had filed his own teeth and had attempted to kill a police officer by going for the neck.

The door opened just a bit and in sidled a man whom George knew and could not honestly say he liked. Of all his colleagues he was easily the most big-headed, self righteous prig he'd ever met. He'd been working in New York for only a few months and already he had the airs of a veteran. He controlled his expression.

"Hello George," said the man.

George looked up, putting on a professional smile. Dr. Alain Rictor, who also did psychological profiling for serial killers, but not sex offenders like he himself did. "Hello, Alain," he replied casually, then looked back down.

For all that George hated him he had to admit the man had a sexual energy about him that everyone could see, and he was very handsome. He was thin and lithe, his movements were graceful. His blond 

hair was wavy and cut about the ears, red square-framed glasses polished. Everything about him, from the trendy way he was dressed and groomed to his tightly controlled profession seemed fake. George positively hated him.

Alain slid into the leather guest seat across from him, smiling winningly. He leaned forward, oddly flecked green eyes danced over the files in front of him.

"Ah the... vampyric cases," he said, "how nice for you. Working tight with the NYPD too," he finished teasingly.

"I enjoy working with them," George replied. "These are quite similar to the Corley case in Washington, I'm just cross-referencing now for some ideas."

Alain nodded, staring at him. He looked positively amused. "Our delightful leader has sent me to give this to you," he said, sliding a file across the desk.

George picked it up and flicked it open.

Alain watched a moment, and smoothing his wavy hair said, "An unsolved case in Atlanta, very similar to this."

George nodded, muttering his thanks, not looking at those strange eyes he hated so much. He lifted a page to look at the photos of the discovered corpses. Alain was still staring, and it bothered him.

"Anything else?" he asked, trying to keep the hint off of his voice.

"Oh, no," Alain smirked. He rose, brushed off his pants, and turned to leave. "Have fun with the Neanderthals at SVU."

He left the room.

George chucked the file at the door as the phone began to ring. He answered it, scribbled down a note, and rose to collect his things. Captain Cragen, sounding tired and very over worked, had just called.

There was another body.

The body was discovered in another odd area, this one down by the river by an abandoned warehouse. He met CSU and Detective Elliot Stabler, who was bouncing on spot, twirling his keys and staring off into space. George recognized it at once as a nervous bounce – the bodies were usually gruesome. Some more than others.

"'Lo George," said Elliot casually.

George tried not to show his amusement. Elliot looked like a great big kid who was trying not to show he had to use the washroom. It helped ease off the stress.

"Hello Elliot," he replied, feeling more friendly than normal. "How bad?"

Elliot looked uneasy. He tossed his head towards the warehouse. "Some kids looking to smoke a little pot in peace found it. They ran out screaming. It's the usual story, guy's about six foot tall and two hundred pounds, athletic. Burns all over his body, deep lacerations, looks like he's been chained up like all the rest."

They were walking towards the warehouse. It was an old, brick building. Windows were smashed with stones, the grounds covered in rusty cars. Charcoal from campfires dotted the more reclusive spots. CSU were combing the grounds for clues. Ducking under the tape they entered the cool, musty interior.

Lights shone on the body. CSU were taking pictures and cataloguing likely evidence. The body was drenched in light. George stepped up and leaned slightly over, getting a look.

He was completely naked save a stained leather collar. The body was rough, slices and burns at random intervals. Heavy bruising and bleeding about the wrists and neck. The face, however, was flawless as usual with not a drop of blood. The killer wanted his victim looking good. Likely he'd been raped, too, like the others. He leaned closer, putting on a silicon glove. He touched the victim's neck lightly.

Two perfect punctures.

It was disquieting. Swallowing, he withdrew his hand. He looked back at the greyish skin turned white in the light. Glancing up he noticed Elliot had turned his back on the scene.

He stood up. "Same as always," said George, circling. "Displayed spread eagle for all to see. Tortured and degraded. Raped. And the bite mark."

Elliot shuddered visibly.

"Vampirism bother you, Elliot?" he asked.

"A little," he replied turning. "I mean, if this sicko is really drinking blood..."

George nodded his agreement. "Probably does a little bit."

"Is that all?" he asked.

George nodded again and started for the exit. Elliot followed him and the two walked in silence until they were back out in the sunlight. Looking up at the Manhattan skyline with a deep azure backdrop they both relaxed.

"How's Olivia?" Elliot asked softly.

George sighed. "You know I can't tell you."

Elliot glared at him. "Why not? You can at least tell me if she's OK."

He looked up at the bigger man. Rage pulsed through his being. He was untameable. He admired that very much in him, although it did give him the qualities of a ticking time bomb.

"She's fine, Elliot," he said softly.

It was enough to make him relax. They stepped aside to let CSU pass. Olivia Benson, Elliot's partner in SVU, was undercover in the vampyric culture of New York. She was masquerading about the clubs looking for information, and George was the only one allowed contact in order to coach her, and even that contact was brief, controlled phone calls on secured lines.

"His name is Ed Gontier, an officer with NYPD. His information was with his clothes, like all the others. He was described as a very masculine, alpha male type. A "take no shit" kind of guy, who had a couple of excessive force charges on his record," said Elliot.

George wrote down the information. "Whoever this person is they have a serious inferiority complex. They revel in torturing and raping and degrading the biggest men around to prove how strong they are. The act of drinking blood simply enforces ownership, which is also enforced by the collar. He probably makes them beg before he actually kills them. As for the rest of the vampyric tendencies, he likely gets a sort of sexual stimulation from the act of biting and drinking. Also it could be a mother complex; he was too close to her and didn't have any support from a father so he achieves intimacy with men by drinking and rape. It could also be him trying to prove that he's stronger than his father. I wish I had a suspect to interview."

Elliot glanced down at him, having heard this all before. "You already know there are no connections to these guys, except that they're all police officers."

George nodded. "Yeah. Listen, I might as well get back to the office. I'll see if Olivia has any leads."

Elliot seemed like he wanted to say something as they walked back to his car. George slid into the beaten up Honda Civic he needed to replace. Elliot stood by the door, watching him, wanting to say something. He nodded and shut the door for him. George waved good-bye.

Elliot had been acting oddly for awhile, especially since they had been required to work closely together recently in Olivia's absence. Elliot came with the doctor on rounds, and when they went to go investigate a possible subject (all of which had just ended up being delusional teens with no connection after all) he was right along side him in the interrogation room. He suspected it was because of the way he was moving through leaning posts, so to speak. First Kathy, then Hendricks and Danni and Olivia. Now he'd found one in George just because he was happy to listen.

It was bothersome in some ways too – the good doctor had always been attracted to the fierce predatory nature Elliot possessed, and the passion and fire he commanded made most people who were attracted to those with a y-chromosome weak in the knees.

Shifting uncomfortably, wondering what Elliot could possibly want to say to him, he figured he had enough problems right now without trying to figure out that enigma.

Rising up from his soft king size bed the master looked about the room and sniffed the air. Tonight he was in his brown stone in the west fifties, not far away from central park. The window was open letting in a fresh breeze. He smoothed his hair absentmindedly and looked down to Thomas, who was sleeping next to him. Naked and somewhat battered from their love-making he was passed out entirely and likely wouldn't wake until morning.

The master slipped from the sheets and paced the room a moment. He was hungry again, which was unheard of. Someone of his age should only need to feed every few months. But he was possessed. He needed to feed, he needed...

He shook suddenly and grasped at the wall to keep him held up. He needed to hurt something. It was like degeneration into a lower level ghoul. That need to feed and rip and tear, and of course reproduce. He glanced at the window and strode quickly over.

He searched for the moon - he could just see it over the edge of a sky scraper. Yes. Full moon, and not just any... it was the 30th of the month. A blue moon. His fangs itched.

He slipped into some ragged street clothes, not caring for appearances that night. And this body would like scare the filth tracking him, too. Those pigs in the NYPD so desperately clawing after him who would never find him. He was far too meticulous to leave hints.

Glancing at Thomas he leapt from the third floor balcony and landed easily on the ground, catlike and quiet. Hunger ripped through him. He yearned to pick any target, to sink his fangs nice and deep and feel the blood fill his mouth... he grew slightly hard at the thought.

Walking along he knew that he had to pick a nice little pawn. Police officer? Possible, yes, for he was strong enough despite his slender frame. He knew several players in his game. If he didn't despise women he knew one who'd been sent to find him in that nasty vampire subculture that were naught above vermin. She was a rook. He kept a nice eye on those following him, and had a few good targets in mind. Some pawns and some more key players in his chess game. Like the king. He giggled. He was for later.

No, perhaps he'd injure them severely. The queen would work nicely. It might send the king into a crusade.

Turning he headed with purpose downtown. Hailing a taxi he slid inside and told him a general address. He didn't know where he lived exactly, but he could find him by scent.

The cabbie didn't seem too hot on having him in the car, but he slipped plenty of money through the window. Dressed in a pair of tattered jeans, worn sneakers, a dark wool toque and a ripped hoodie he didn't look like the average member of this neighbourhood.

He left across from a bar, ran an appraising eye over the bouncer and smiled, then headed up the street sniffing the air. The scent was strong. He giggled wildly. Very close. The scent was so strong he could see a faint red ribbon in the air before him.

"What will you do, my dear," he murmured softly as he closed in on the source, "When you realise I'm not simply a freak with a mother complex? Ah my dear, dear doctor."

There at a corner store a short Asian man walked off with a bag of groceries. He knew him well. He'd been watching. The second there was police involvement with the murders he'd rooted out everyone on his case – his influence was extensive.

The man was attractive and he had a strong will about him. He likely wouldn't succumb to his eyes so easily. That in itself gave him immense sexual appeal. He headed for an apartment building just up the street.

Glancing over he saw a teenager smoking a cigarette. He walked over, whistling. The teen stared at him. The master removed his glasses as he got close knowing that their true color was likely shining. "Hello my dear," he said in a voice barely above a whisper. "I need you."

The teen dropped his cigarette. "What th' fuck-" he began to say.

It was too late. The master was close now. His eyes were now a bright, shining gold. "Come to eternity, pet," he said in a lulling voice.

The teenager's will broke easily. It disappointed the master, but he didn't let it bother him. "Yes," the boy murmured.

The master started after his real target. The teen followed.

Hunger rumbled again. Soon Dr. George Huang, the one they needed most for this case, would feel the Embrace and would be thrown head-long into a world like he never knew. He felt himself get harder as he approached. He yearned to smell fear, he yearned to feel his will break and bend to his.

"Yes, Doctor dear..." he laughed, "yes, here I come."


	2. The Embrace

Thanks for the responses, guys!

Chapter Two: The Embrace

The doorman Gregory Wilkes tipped his hat at George as he opened the door.

"Evening Dr Huang," he said, smiling.

"Good evening, Greg," he responded in an attempt to sound cheery. "Guarding the gates?"

Greg laughed. He was quick to laughter. A sturdy, well kept man he was friends with most everyone in the apartment. "No enemies getting past me tanight," he said.

His apartment was on the top floor but he walked anyway enjoying the stretch. He was so tired, up until this ungodly hour of two tearing through case files until he decided he didn't want to spend another hour in the office. Grabbing some cat chow and a sandwich from the 7-11 across the street he'd gotten the distinct feeling of being followed but had ignored it knowing no one would get into the apartment anyway. Greg never let anyone in the apartment that he didn't know by sight at this hour.

His cat meowed happily as he entered the apartment. The hungry tabby dove into the can of Whiskas moist cat food George set out for him.

"Miss me Toby?" he asked, scratching his pussy cat behind the ears.

Toby purred. Smiling George sat at the little breakfast bar at the island in his kitchen and started to eat the ham and cheese sandwich.

He shivered. The office was so spooky late at night and Alain of course had parted that evening at five with a snide remark of George's 'Familiar,' meaning Elliot he guessed. The detective had shown up with some information that CSU had turned up. A blond hair. DNA results were pending.

_Elliot..._ he swallowed hard. Damn that man. He persisted about his thoughts all the time. He wondered what it would be like to kiss him...

He shook himself. "Stop being an idiot," he said out loud, checked the locks and windows, and turned off the lights. "He's the most heterosexual man you've ever met, so just _stop."_ He thought for a moment. "I think I have a book with a case of vampirism..." he mumbled, heading for the living room.

The master had easily bent the doorman to his will. It had taken only a moment longer than the pet who was tagging along behind. The doorman let him enter. The master sized him up and told him to follow. 

They had a stop to make initially – the furnace room – where he instructed the doorman who occasionally tended to emergencies such as this to shut off the breakers to the doctor's floor.

The walk up the building was nice. His pet rushed to open doors for him. The ribbon of scent was delicious. The doctor had very nice smelling blood. He was on the fifth floor where the loft apartments were. His room was 503 and was right at the end of the hall at the back of the building.

The master slipped on a pair of gloves as he approached the door. He rapped twice, telling his servants to be silent.

There was a thump, a clicking and the sliding of a chain. The hallway was pitch black and, quite likely, so was the doctor's apartment.

"Hello?" asked the man on the other side of the door.

"Hello," said the master winningly, "the powers out and I really need to make a phone call. Can I use your cell? Mine's dead," he said, finishing with what he hoped was a good laugh in response to the situation.

George sighed. "Stupid power. Does Greg know?" he asked, turning and walking into the apartment, leaving the door open.

"I imagine so," replied the master.

George looked back. The master could see he was puzzled. "Uh... you can come in," he said, "you don't have to stand in the hall."

The master grinned. This was what he was waiting for. He stepped smoothly inside. "Why, thank you Doctor Huang," he said, feeling his gums itch.

His servants stepped in the house behind him – the teen shut and bolted the door. George was talking, sounding extremely tired. He wouldn't be tired for long.

A cat, whose scent had not quite eluded the master, hissed suddenly, letting out an unholy shriek. It was atop a shelf, tail puffed, ears flat against its head, and its claws out. The master stepped forward and with a single swipe sent the feline flying across the room. A shatter of glass and another yowl of pain let him know its landing had not been soft.

"Toby?" asked George suddenly, who had been just walking back.

Golden eyes smiled down through the dark.

The expressions on his face were delicious on their own. He heard the speeding of the heartbeat and the cry of terror made him shudder with pleasure.

"I want your blood, George Huang," he said, smiling.

George started at Toby's shriek, and the resultant crash made his heart pound. Looking up he saw two vibrant amber eyes staring at him through the dark. He saw almost nothing else but a slender body. He let out a cry of fear, heart hammering as some instinctual fear began to take over.

"I want your blood, George Huang," said the intruder, sounding amused.

_No,_ he thought desperately, turning to run further into the apartment. An icy hand gripped his throat, squeezing hard enough to keep him still and allow him to breath.

"Hold him, slave," said the voice.

Two rough, callused hands held him fast. Another hand dug itself into his hair. His head was pulled back and something was pulled about his neck. Freezing cold it was clicked into place. A moment later he was yoked hard and being dragged across the carpet by the thing around his neck. He scrambled on the floor trying to keep whatever it was loose.

He was in his bedroom a moment later, alone on the floor, coughing hard. His hand reached up to feel what was there.

A collar.

"Now pet, you insist on following so I insist on leading," said the cold voice.

"Who are you?" George rasped.

"Mmm... The White King, The Master, The Puppeteer, The Blood-Drinker," he said The Master.

George didn't know what to say. He had dropped his phone, but there was one on the bed stand. There were three intruders in the room, he guessed, but they didn't know the place like he did. He groped in the dark, but he was severely reprimanded by a boot to the stomach. He gasped, the air left his lungs and he wheezed on the floor.

The bedding was stripped and the closet ransacked. The Master picked him up by the shirt and tossed him onto the bed as if he weighed nothing.

"Now my dear, darling Doctor Huang," he said, taunting, "It is time for me to break you."

He thought of those men that had been tortured likely near to insanity. Rage blossomed in the doctor's normally peaceful soul. He leapt up and rushed the intruder, fists bunched, yelling in anger.

He didn't even see his hand move. The Master back handed him, his teeth grated and pain exploded in his head, colors swam. He hit the ground, feeling dumb. He was lifted up by the Master and back handed him once more, he tasted blood as he bit his lip and stars exploded once more.

"You will not talk back to your Sire," said The Master.

George groaned in pain. "F-fuck you," he said, surprising himself with the use of the four letter word.

He laughed, slapped him again, and threw him back on the bed. "You speak too much."

In a minute he was tied up to his own bed. There was a clinking in the kitchen and The Master returned. He stripped down, commanding the slave to stand by the door.

George trembled, remembering everything that had happened to the others. This was the vampyric loon, this was the freak who had degraded and raped and tortured men. This was the man who had sucked their blood, and now he was climbing over him, naked and erect.

"Please, no," he begged.

He had a knife in his hand.

"Will you break so easily, George?" The Master asked.

He set his jaw. No. He would not give him the pleasure of a scream. He glared at him. The Master laughed, lowering the knife to rest between his pectorals. "I'm happy. I want to take a nice, long time in breaking you. And then you'll feel my Kiss."

The knife pressed. George gritted his teeth, he could not help the gasp of pain as it broke the skin. A rivulet of blood ran down his stomach. Tears formed in his eyes.

"That makes you so much more fun, my Black Queen," said The Master, leaning down and running his tongue along the blood. George cringed. "Your blood is delicious."

George knew he mustn't give in. Even if he died, he would be defiant to the last.

"Now, my dear pet, shall we begin?"

Elliot had been sleeping, but somewhat uneasily. He woke up, blinking sleep from his eyes. He looked at the clock. It was almost three. He rolled over in his bed. His big lonely bed. Realizing he had to pee he got up and headed for the washroom.

It had been exactly a year since he had signed the papers with Kathy. He had been fixing his life since then. He'd sold his half of his house to Kathy and moved into a condo, still in Queens. He wanted the kids to have a house, not the tiny apartment Kathy had been renting. It wasn't fair to upset them – he'd been the one who was never home. He'd been the jerk.

So he'd found this condo close enough to visit his kids. It was a reasonable price, just enough lawn to make believe he had a yard. He even went and bought himself a cat. It was a thick, fluffy beast with attitude. It cared for Elliot and only Elliot. Everyone else – pfft, fuhgeddaboudit.

He had spent time decorating his house by himself, making it something of his own for once. He hadn't asked for help from anyone – this was his. His own furniture, everything, in a last ditch effort to erase everything that hadn't worked out before.

Yet as he planned and fixed and set things up as he wanted them someone persisted in hanging about his mind. They helped put things up, laughed at him for goofing off, cooked dinner with him, worked with him to sweep the house. Someone short, charismatic, friendly and open. Someone who only seemed to really seem at ease despite all the pretending around him.

_Damn you, George,_ he thought to himself as he headed for a glass of water.

He had begun talking to George more and more. They were getting to be friends, actual friends. They had coffee every now and then, talking about books and music (their tastes were similar), and they went for long walks with each other after work. Once they had even gone to Broadway when Elliot got tickets. It wound up funny because they were both disgusted by the restaurant they went to after they found the closest greasy spoon diner and had omelettes and bad coffee, discussing the meaning of life. It had been a wonderful night. He felt warm when he remembered it.

He took a long drink, wiped his mouth, and wandered back to bed. He lay awake for a long time wondering what exactly his feelings were. He may have fallen in love with George that night. That crinkly smile he made, laughing after they left _Chianti_, an Italian restaurant that didn't believe in Italian portions. Something about eating Kermit (the entree was frogs legs). The ham and cheese omelettes afterwards were superb and the coffee (tarry sludge though it was) a fine wine. Nothing had been wrong that night.

He didn't really _want_ to be gay, especially after being married for twenty years. It made him feel as if he was living in some kind of lie. But it couldn't be denied that the doctor was starting to worm his way into his heart. Those smiles he seemed to save just for him...

He felt himself heat up and the thought of kissing the doctor, what it would be like to feel a masculine body underneath his own.

He rolled in his sheets, feeling like a teenager. He was a sex cop and he knew it was an "only natural" thing, but...

He pulled the sheets clear over his head when the phone rang.

He pulled the blankets off of his face and stared at the receiver. Probably Cragen. A new lead or new case.

"Hello?" he asked, picking up the phone.

"Elliot Stabler?" asked a voice, a male voice he didn't recognize.

"Yes..." he said slowly. A million thoughts rushed through his head. Fear stabbed him. Were the kids OK?

"George Huang is in danger."

Elliot blinked. It was the last thing he was expecting. "What?" he asked.

"You care about George Huang? He is in danger."

"Who are you?" was all Elliot could manage.

"No one you need worry about. George Huang is in danger."

"From what? Why don't you call the police."

"I thought you were," said the voice, "save him or not. His life hangs in the balance."

There was a click. Elliot stared at the receiver, shell shocked. He dialled George's phone but no answer. He dialled his office, then his cell. No answer but voice mail.

He felt panic begin to set in.

He leapt up, dressing and grabbing his keys.

George blinked through the red haze. There was so much... pain. His mind kept flashing back and forth. Things from his childhood, things from the present. Elliot.

The metal chain The Master had found whipped across his back. He gritted his teeth, trying not to scream, but all that came out was a pitiful cry. Tears rolled down his face.

Elliot. Elliot would hold him. Those beautiful blue eyes, his arms. He thought about the diner. He thought about going to see _Mama Mia!_ and those terrible frogs legs. Eating Kermit, he'd said. They'd laughed a lot that night.

He wished he could have kissed Elliot just once.

The whip came again. He started sobbing.

Just once.

"How are you, Pet?" asked the sly one's voice in his ear.

George couldn't answer. He was crying too hard. His blood was everywhere. He was tied from an improv bolt in the ceiling he'd used for plants. Naked and humiliated and in so much pain.

"Stop," he managed, shaking, sure his muscles couldn't take it anymore.

George said nothing.

The chain came again, and again. A rib snapped. George screamed this time knowing he wouldn't be heard. His neighbours were worlds away. One was deaf, the other had soundproofed his house because he said he was a musician and he played the drums all the time.

_The pain..._ Tears mixed with blood. He wanted to die.

He heard a chuckle from behind him. Their loathsome arms wrapped around his torso. Pain lanced up his body from the lacerations and bruises.

"Just kill me," he moaned.

"Do you mean it?" he asked, subdued.

"Please. Let me die," he said, hanging his head in defeat.

_Elliot. I'm sorry._

Through a gauze he was pulled down and laid upon the bed. One servant had left, leaving only one. Silently watching as told.

Behind him The Master settled. He felt his hardness against his back as they spooned up. His tongue ran gently along George's neck. "Tell me how much you want it, Pet," he whispered.

George, devoid of fight, choked down a sob and said, "Please master, I want it."

"How badly?"

"Master, I can hardly stand it. Please." His body shook with suppressed cries. _Elliot._

The master reached down and gripped him. George cringed. Cold breath seethed across his skin. The Masters fangs found a vein then sunk into his flesh. Then quite suddenly he was met with a pleasure he'd never before experienced. Elliot swam before his eyes.

Suddenly he was kissing him, his arms were around him. They were making love. What had happened? Hadn't it always been this way? Had something been happening before? Pain was erased, replaced by this ecstasy.

But something was happening. Elliot was being replaced... blinding light like nothing he'd ever felt before. Pain returned, only it was so far away it was just a mild irritation. The light surrounded him. His every being was focused on this pleasure.

Suddenly it stopped. The light was there but a cold world was around him, he felt pain flashing from all over his body. Through the light he could see The Master over top of him, a dim outline. He realized suddenly this was death, and that light was not where he wanted to go.

The man he cared for flashed forward in his mind. _ELLIOT!_ He screamed silently, unable to find voice. His body was an unfeeling island.

Something was forced against his mouth. Something was filling it and he couldn't breathe. It tasted metallic and strange and familiar. Someone was yelling. He didn't want to drown. He wanted to see Elliot.

He swallowed.

Had the pain been anything before? No, it had not. It was replaced instantly by a hunger that tore through his mind. His mouth burned, his eyes flew open as darkness filled them. His body was electrically charged. He bit down on whatever was in his mouth, swallowing desperately, seizing it in his hands. He needed more! He was so hungry!

The arm was ripped away from him and he licked his lips and fingers for whatever it was that tasted so good.

He became aware of a scent. There was someone there. A teenager was staring at him. Lost to all around him and to all that had mattered he lunged forward, his arms pried their head and shoulders apart, exposing soft skin. The pulse thumped lightly, the teen struggled, and it didn't matter. He sunk in his teeth and was lost to the hunger.

Through a fog his self returned. He woke up to the world around him. He was holding something thin and limp.

He saw two eyes, glazed in death.

He screamed, leaping back from the body that hit the ground with a dull thud. He heard laughter. The master, now dressed, was cackling.

"Welcome, Child! Bow to your Sire!"

George's world sick and spinning, he hit the ground and did not wake up for a long time.


	3. Rude Awakening

I'm sorry this update is so long in coming. I've redone the chapters now to where I want them. The reason I haven't updated was because the work I'd done was deleted and I had no backups. My old computer has since perished. Recently I've been wanting to get back into writing, so I picked my favourite story that I'd been working on and this is it, so here it is revamped (heh) and hopefully some of my other long story will be updated too, though I've lost my notes and my chapters that were done.

Chapter Three: Rude Awakening

Elliot arrived at George's apartment at around four in the morning wondering what the hell he was going to say. He parked in front in a 2 hour spot, thinking that was likely all he needed. After all, George was sure to send him packing. He was probably asleep.

He walked up to the door but the doorman was fast asleep and no amount of tapping or buzzing was waking him up. Greg Wilkes, as George had introduced him, worked night shift as doorman, and was always rather alert. He had been doubly so when they had returned late in the evening from Mama Mia! Elliot found it strange.

He glanced over as two women came jogging up. The taller was younger by at least twenty years, blond windswept hair pulled back into a loose bun. She was dressed in smart, designer running clothes. A bulge low on her stomach made Elliot figure she was pregnant. The other was shorter by five inches, her blond hair was streaked with grey and she had a kindly, wrinkled face.

The younger started to unlock the door.

"Um," said Elliot awkwardly, "the doorman is asleep and I can't get in."

The younger woman eyed him in a suspicious way. The older one, likely her mother, smiled. "Who are you meeting, dear?"

"George Huang," said Elliot, still feeling awkward.

"Ahhhhh," said the older woman as the younger one blushed. "You're his beau, are you?"

"Mother!" said the young woman looking scandalized.

Elliot felt his face flushing. "No, I... I just have reason to believe, I..."

"No need to be ashamed dear, George is a lovely man. Let him in Lydia, let him in."

Lydia looked suspicious still. "ID?"

Elliot dug through his pocket and pulled out his badge and ID. He thought briefly about how much he hated that picture. She examined it a moment, nodded, and then let him in. He ran up the stairs to get it over with.

He went to knock on 503 but he noticed that something was amiss. The door was open.

His heart thumped. He let himself in, calling into the still apartment. "George? It's Elliot. You OK?"

Silence. Not even tired stirring.

He stepped in further. The hall looked normal, like it did the last time he was here. a few paintings, and a small shelf that held a few pieces of pottery and a spot for incense. Elliot noticed a broken pitcher on the floor and frowned. He knew that the bedroom was up at the top of the stairs in the loft with his study. He ran up two at a time. The bedroom door was open a crack. He peered inside nervously.

Cold shock settled into his stomach.

The room was torn apart. The mattress was bloody, as was the east wall. Blankets were in the corner with a pile of clothes. A few implements of torture were lying about – a bloody chain, a knife, a lighter. His eyes focused on a forlorn looking body in the corner.

His mouth went dry as he forced himself to walk forward into this horrifying scene. Tears welled up in his eyes as he beheld George, naked and beaten and bloody on the ground. He didn't look like he was breathing, he just looked... he looked...

His heart throbbed as he realized how much he cared about him, and how stupid he'd been over the last few months. He knelt down, gently rolling him to look at his face. He couldn't help but see the two holes in his neck. His skin was ice cold. George's eyes were half closed, almost like sleep. He looked so calm... His vision began to get blurry. His face was wet. He realized he was crying.

"Oh no George, God, no, no..." he moaned.

It was something akin to floating, but not floating. He'd never felt like it before. Nothing compared, not even like the time when he was in college and he was paid to take LSD for a test, and it had ranked highest amongst his strange memories. This place was weightless, senseless. There was no sound, no taste, no feeling, no scent, not even anything to see - it wasn't black or white, it was simply nothing.

Thin, like a wisp of smoke on the wind, a scent came like a faint ribbon. This thing, this smell, was very different from the void. Red and twisting it was, and grew stronger. Stronger. He was sated but there was a low burn in his throat and that scent made it burn hotter.

"-eorge..."

Like a light, he tried to swim to it.

"Not him, no please..."

But he found he did not swim. He pounced.

His body felt jolted like a live wire. Sensory input like nothing he'd ever experienced blasted him. Scents - a million scents - fired information at him. Sounds came from everywhere. And something warm - deliciously warm - was touching him.

His eyes flew open. The grain of the ceiling, the bloodstained walls, and the thing which held him came into view and he analyzed it all. He could smell cinnamon, water, fish, food, books, papers. But most important were two scents - that which held him and something else, something delicious that set the burn smoldering.

_Elliot,_ his mind fired at him as he beheld the shocked, tear-stained face of the man that held him. _Fear, salty tears, pain, shock and... pheromones? _This last scent puzzled him, but his instincts insisted upon it. As for the other thing, his instincts purred with delight upon analyzing it. It craved it. The scent was red and warm, and he could almost taste it on his tongue. He felt full, but he wanted it.

"Elliot?"

Memories assaulted him. Pain, degradation, so much pain and... pleasure.

"Elliot, where am I?" a side of him that was still dominant, but weak, asked.

"Your home," he replied, blinking, his blue eyes coming into focus.

Oh that scent, that smell, coming from him, so strong, so delicious. Oh, the _desire_ for that scent!

His mind struggled. A third part of him wondered if this were what schizophrenia felt like. Something laughed. The weakest part pulled forward, ignoring the scent, and the desire subsided, but did not disappear.

Tears welled up and he began to cry. His arms reached out and clung to Elliot like he was a life preserver and he sobbed into his chest. "I'm home," he said into his shirt, feeling his muscles shake from release.

His mind laughed quietly, as if at a distance.

After a time the crying slowed and he let himself away from the warmth of his body. He rolled back onto Elliot's lap and looked up at the ceiling. Elliot was looking up as well, blushing from his roots and even down to his hands that were still securely holding his arms.

Slowly, as if minding hurts, he sat up. The cuts and bruises stung as if he'd been hurt days ago, tickled even. He tried to take stock of where he was, but it hardly looked like his room anymore. His things were strewn about everywhere, blood, crusted and brown, coated the bedspread and was even sprayed on the walls.

"He killed me," he said.

He could smell what _remained_, but not who he _was._ He wasn't sure if he could smell himself or not, but if he could he was certain it wasn't really him anymore. A husk.

"You're alive," he heard Elliot say. He'd placed a hand on his shoulder. A shudder ran down his back - partly pleasure, partly the warmth, and partly a razor sharp instinct that demanded he spring at him.

"We need to call an ambulance," said Elliot.

An ambulance would be no good. Painful cuts that should be lacerations were healing.

"I just want to get cleaned up," he said.

"George," Elliot said, and he shuddered again at an intense surge of pleasure that hearing him say that brought, "You were attacked. And it's not like you can pass off your cuts like you'd fallen down the stairs."

"You don't understand," he said. His mind cried out in frustration as he tried to figure it out. "I don't understand."

_After all, how do I explain that there are so many pieces of me fighting inside over this body like it's a scrap of food?_

"George, I'm going to call an ambulance, and the captain, and let them know to contact yours, OK?"

He turned and glared at Elliot a moment, but the look softened. He nodded. Glancing down he realized he was naked. He felt warmth burst over his entire body, mortified. It explained why Elliot hadn't wanted to look at him.

"Captain, it's Elliot..."

George didn't want to hear anymore, but he couldn't shut his ears out. He focused on his dresser. He hunted out a t-shirt, slacks, underwear - all the necessities, and went to the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.

He leaned against the door a moment. He could still hear Elliot too clearly.

He walked to the mirror and gasped. His reflection was there but it was... faded. Like he was looking at a mirage. Shimmering, hard to focus on and see any detail. He scratched at the mirror with his fingernails, but it was the same as always.

_I'm really not alive, am I?_

He reached up and pressed his fingers against his neck, searching, feeling for the pulse he already knew wouldn't be there. He closed his eyes and moaned.

_I'm dead._

The scent flared outside the door, seeping in around the cracks. His throat burned and his mouth filled up with saliva.

"George, you OK in there?" he heard Elliot say. He could also hear every breath, every beat of his heart, the gurgle of his stomach, and the minute rustlings of his clothing.

_Oh my good god!_

His mind laughed wickedly, the scent flared and he clamped his hands vice-like around his head, breathing hard. The taste was on his tongue so he closed his mouth and held his breath. The world became scentless, though he could still taste the vestiges of it on his tongue.

Much better.

"Sorry, Elliot, I'll be out in a moment," he said as fast as he could. His air was running out. Soon he wouldn't be able to talk.

"Jon and Fin will be here soon," Elliot replied, walking away.

"Uh huh," he said, wincing as his air ran out and he was forced to take another quick breath. It didn't burn as much, and he felt better in control of himself than a moment ago.

_Maybe I won't kill Elliot at the drop of a hat,_ he thought to himself as he pulled on the clothing over his battered skin. _Gods, he smells so good._ He thought about how to cover up that he had no pulse and was left drawing up a blank - after all, when the medic's came they'd take his pulse and check all of his vitals. How could he convince them he was fine?

He looked around the washroom and back at the mirror. His shaky reflection watched back.

"Where better than here and now?" he asked to no one in particular and sat down cross-legged on the floor and began to concentrate, willing his body to respond like he wanted it to.

He heard Elliot pacing anxiously out in the hall, but didn't say anything or go to him. The meditation would serve two purposes - not killing Elliot, as well as producing a substantial heart-beat for at least ten seconds.

He felt into his body, willing himself to feel his veins, his heart. Tensing up he poured his thought into it. Imagined his heart beating. Remembering the last time Elliot had stepped to close to him, when they'd been so close in the hall after their 'date' and he'd been able to smell his cologne and had imagined those lips skimming up his neck...

_Th-thump._

His eyes snapped open. The shock and sensation had hurt, but he'd done it! He glanced down at himself. He'd have to think of something else, though. Didn't want to scare the paramedics.

Now to round it up to a good sixty to eighty beats per minute.

The sounds of CSU and the arrival of two people which Elliot greeted more personally then the rest made George finally get up off the floor to see who was there.

Stepping into the hall he saw Jon Munch and Fin Tutuola, both looking at him with a mixture of sympathy, concern and a hint of anger behind their eyes. The delicious scent that had been bothering him had intensified - now there were many other smells, all of them mouth-watering, permeating the apartment.

Munch, he noticed, had a deep smell like leather, tobacco and fresh moss. Fin was decidedly woodsy, with scents of birch, sandalwood, and maybe lime. There were other scents from the crime lab swirling the air, they were making him dizzy, and there were too many to name.

But Elliot... he caught a whiff of a scent still too good to name, this one by far the most appetizing. He wasn't sure if it was just because of the fact he wanted him sexually too.

"You OK doc?" asked Munch, his brown eyes full of concern.

George didn't need much time to think about it. He was dead, had to make his heart beat from pure force of will, and was standing here in a hallway, dressed casually, and fighting down the desire to leap forward and kill everyone in the room.

"I'm OK," he lied. He watched Munch's eyes sweep the room appraisingly, then scan him.

"Interview here, or at the station?" asked Munch in an almost fatherly voice.

"Station." There would be people with lots of lots of guns there, in case he lost it. He didn't think he would, he had a stranglehold on the desire at the moment, but you never knew.

"Alright."

"Yo doc," said Fin, "Imma get this guy for you. No one hit's one of our own with impunity."

George smiled, wondering how much more he could take. He didn't think anyone would catch the one who did this to him anyway. And as soon as he'd figured out _what_ he was, he was going to figure out his options.

He thanked him and followed the faint, crimson ribbon in the air before him to the kitchen to find Elliot.

He was kneeling on the floor. A myriad of scents let him know that Elliot was hurting emotionally. He was crouching over something... dead.

"Elliot, what-"

"George, don't!" said Elliot, tensing up.

"What is it?"

"It's... Toby," he replied reluctantly.

There was a pulling ache from somewhere inside of him. Elliot slowly stood up, his arms cradled around a small bundle of grey fur. He turned and George let out a thin gasp as he beheld the tiny creature in Elliot's arms. He could be sleeping.

"Oh... god..." said a voice that wasn't really George's. It was a brutal imitation.

He wanted to cry. He _should_ cry. But he couldn't. There were no tears available to him. Just this pain. He felt himself shake. He sobbed in the back of his throat and he lurched forward into Elliot, trying not to let go of his mind.

There was too much of his brain now - pieces that were hungry. Pieces that were trying to hold those back. Grief, deep grief for the small animal between himself and Elliot, and a small measure of lust for the man who he leaned against, and a slowly burning rage at the one who had attacked his life like this, who'd raped, tortured and degraded him, broke into his home, killed Toby, and turned him into... into _this._

There was part one of his plan. He was going to kill the one who did this, and he was going to kill him slowly.


	4. Slow Starvation

A very long chapter. Again, thanks for being patient with me.

Chapter Four - Slow Starvation

Meeting with the paramedic had been hard. Elliot left him alone in the ambulance and he'd had to struggle with himself over not killing her, and over making his heart beat. She'd seemed satisfied, and had barely bothered him for the rest of the ride to Bellevue.

Inside the hospital was a different story. A nurse and a forensic scientist scraped and poked at him, and collected his clothing. The urge to strike like some kind of snake attacked him every time they came close and his too-sensitive eyes could see the twitch of the pulse in their neck.

The nurse, a towering, intimidating woman named Wendy came at him with a long swab and told him to bend over.

"Aren't you going to buy me a drink first?" George asked, staring at the offending object.

The three of them burst out laughing. He could hear Elliot chuckling on the other side of the screen. The humor helped the instincts recede. He wondered why they weren't upset that his skin was so cool.

The nurse left and the CSI 's assistant, a short woman about 5'3", came in chewing gum. A scent started to permeate the room and George felt his eyes water. This woman was not something to eat, whatever the scent was, it reminded him of a putrid mixture of mothballs and disinfectant.

The CSI excused himself, and the woman pulled out several rulers.

"How ya feeling, Doctor Huang?" she asked, snapping her gum.

"Dead," he replied, looking through a crack in the curtain at a 40 year-old with head trauma, being spoon fed oatmeal.

"Dead?" she asked.

"Dead." He scratched the bite holes. "I feel dead and I don't think I'll be recovering any time soon."

She put away her camera and pulled another one out, a larger digital camera. "This camera will show things that you wouldn't normally see," she explained.

George endured patiently as she photographed each bruise, setting rulers nearby it. She paid special attention to the bite on his neck, which had taken on a puffy, abused quality, from what he could tell by his pokes and prods. The smell of mothballs and detergent was getting worse, and it was making his eyes water.

He watched her finish packing up.

"So, anything else troubling you?" she asked, closing her camera case with a snap.

"No," he replied, wondering when he'd get a shower.

"You sure?" she asked again, her eyes trying to convey some hint.

"No," he said again, irritated now. He brushed past her, missing her taking out her cellphone.

After a brief talk with Captain Donald Cragen, which was much the same as his talk with own boss, he found himself in that familiar green room, on the wrong side of the table, with Munch and Fin staring at him, both looking uncomfortable.

He was off the case and had a guard posted about him at all times. Elliot and another named Kevin Burgess who was to be there while Elliot took breaks or slept. If this wasn't cause for annoyance enough (except perhaps the Elliot part) he had to talk about what happened when he'd much rather start looking for the one who did it.

"Listen, you know the drill doc," Munch said gently. "Say what you can, take as long as you can. Water or coffee for you?"

"No," said George who wasn't thirsty in the least. Not for coffee anyway.

"Start at the beginning," said Fin.

George found himself talking after a moment. He spoke as naturally as he could but he found his voice breaking up occasionally. He watched himself speak from the back of his mind wondering what the heck was wrong.

When he got to the bite he froze momentarily. Suddenly he had a burst of pleasure coarse through him, pulsing through him. It was all he could do to keep from moaning, so he simply doubled over, holding his stomach. He shook his head violently to clear his head and told them all he could about it, sans visions and ecstasy.

"After that it goes dark," he said, shaking his head. "I can't remember anything else."

"Do you remember anything special about your attackers?"

"The dominant one, he insisted on me being submissive. He seemed picky about, about blood. He called himself The Master," George shuddered. "One was a teenager, and the last was older, but neither of these spoke. Unless they were saying "Yes, Master."

Fin wrote it down. "OK doc, you're done for now," he said.

George left the room, Elliot was waiting outside.

Elliot looked at him curiously. "You OK?"

George was still blinking off the hallucination. "Yeah."

"Breakfast?"

George wasn't sure he could eat, he felt sick and feverish from recounting the rape, but he knew at least he should try. A few minutes later he found himself in a little restaurant not far from the precinct looking at an old, ratty menu. There was too much to smell, it was giving him a headache. And being able to pick out every single heartbeat wasn't helping anything. And there was so much more to his _mind_ now. He could process and analyze without thinking about it, was able to keep a list without meaning too about every single detail of the environment and still think about Elliot, about who attacked him, and what he was going to do about it.

"So," said Elliot as a waitress approached, looking like he wanted to talk but couldn't. "Um... protective detail now, huh?" he asked.

George almost wanted to smile. His boss and Cragen had been adamant over a protective detail to the point of wanting to put him into hiding. Elliot was now his new bodyguard.

"Yeah," he said.

A woman who smelled like a mixture of honey, ginger and cinnamon took their orders. Elliot had steak and eggs, while George settled on poached eggs and toast, not trusting himself with anything more. The coffee's she brought smelled like coffee, but... it wasn't something to drink anymore. It smelled like a pencil or a piece of paper would smell - like an object, not like food.

He took a sip. It was like dirty dishwater.

"So, how's Liv?"

George did smile. "I spoke to her. She's just fine. I caught her around eleven last night."

Elliot nodded.

Analyzing Elliot's eyes he wondered what he saw there. Was it love for Olivia behind those eyes? Or someone else? He wasn't sure he could stand it if it was Olivia. He liked Olivia, she was a really nice, funny person when her barriers came down. He had a feeling that he might hate her if she was with Elliot.

Both of them sat in silence. Elliot drank cup after cup of his coffee, looking like he was steeling himself for something, while George let his cool in his hands, enjoying the warmth from the porcelain.

Elliot cleared his throat, rolling his cup in his hands. "George, there's something I've gotta tell you and I don't know how to say it," Elliot said slowly, like he was testing the waters.

George went instantly on guard. He froze - it felt like every muscle was tensed, waiting. "What is it?"

"George, I-"

"Steak'n'eggs and poached eggs," announced the waitress, setting down the plates before them.

"Thanks, miss," said George.

She winked and walked away.

Elliot was red in the face, stunned into an intense and embarrassed silence. George fumed inwardly - whatever he'd been about to say was monumental, perhaps had something to do with the desires he had. Oh well, he'd come around in the end. Elliot was not a man to run away once he'd committed to something.

George sniffed at his plate. Garbage. This definitely wasn't food - it smelled like cleaner or paint might smell. Reminding himself that it wasn't uncommon for rape victims to not want to eat after an ordeal (and ignoring the nagging sensation in his head that this wasn't what he was meant to eat) he started forcing the food in his mouth. It went down his throat like wet paper towel. He had to work to get his mouth wet enough to swallow.

He stiffened. _There_ was a good smell. His eyes scanned the room while he ate mechanically, a fresh flow of saliva squirting into his mouth. There! A woman was looking panicked. There was adrenaline and quickly pumping veins. But it wasn't _her_ that was appetizing, it was the baby boy who was crying, his hand cut by grabbing his mother's steak knife. The mother squeezed her child's hand with a napkin, but it was too late, it was in the air...

"George?" Elliot's voice cut through his reverie.

George noticed with a start he was already risen from his chair, staring intently in their direction.

_Oh Jesus._

"I'm, uh, not feeling well," he replied, turning and forcing himself towards the bathroom, trying not to picture Elliot's confused stare or the blood all over that knife...

He threw himself into the washroom and swung to look at the mirror. His reflection was still shaky, perhaps more faded than before. He splashed water on his face, the cold water felt warm.

_What is wrong with me?_

He felt his stomach contract. The wrong food. It was rising in his throat. He turned and flung himself into a stall and hurled, pain wracking his body as his breakfast wound up in the bowl.

"George?" he heard Elliot call as he came into the restroom. His scent made his head pound. He hurled one last time and flushed the toilet, wiping at his mouth with toilet paper, spitting as hard as he could.

"Yeah?" he choked.

"You OK?"

"No. Food made me sick. I want to go to home," he groaned.

Elliot was standing outside of the stall now. "No problem."

George left the stall, still trembling. He looked up as a man came in with a nosebleed. Holding his breath he left the restroom and the restaurant as quickly as he could.

Out in the car Elliot kept glancing at him. Finally he said, "you have to stay at a hotel or something, Munch say's you can't get into your room – it's a crime scene."

George grunted, head against the windshield. He thought about those cold, but soft hands running down his stomach and his gut clenched. He saw a man grinning on the sidewalk, talking on his phone, and he felt himself shudder.

"He's meeting us at a park near your house."

"Why?"

Elliot didn't answer.

At a small park, a community effort with shady trees and easily tended beds of flowers, Munch stood next to several packed suitcases and a shoebox. He looked rather poker faced. George stared at the box.

Elliot touched his shoulder. "I thought we'd do this thing right."

George knelt next to the box and gently opened it. Toby lay there, poised like he was sleeping. Amongst him was his food bowls (food and water, punctuated with paw prints), a few catnip mice, and his leash and harness. He'd taken him walking in this very park. He couldn't speak.

He closed the box and lifted it gently in his arms. He noticed a spade amongst the luggage.

Slowly he walked towards a bed of geraniums of which Toby had been particularly fond, the rest of the procession silent behind him. He knelt next to a sandstone rock and let the sun beat down on his neck. He'd wonder why he wasn't burning later.

Silently Elliot began to dig next to a white rock, carefully setting aside flowers so he could replace them. Munch stood by and watched him dig, but George couldn't. After a few minutes Elliot stopped. George looked.

The hole was deep enough to keep marauding dogs away. George placed the shoebox inside the hole after opening the box one more time and taking Toby's nametag off. He took the spade and filled the grave. Elliot replaced the flowers.

A dirty hand found his and squeezed gently before letting go.

Unable to scream like he wanted to, George slowly rose up and walked back to the car.

_Login: _reddragon_

_Password:_ *******

_Click._

_Login._

_Click._

_. . . ._

_Signed in to MSN Messenger! You have (1) new messages!_

_DarkAngel is online._

_. . . ._

_DarkAngel Says: Dragon! Did you hear about the attack? I heard a psychologist in the sex crimes unit got attacked! It was in the paper!_

_Dragon Says: Yeah. He was OK though._

_DarkAngel Says: What happened?_

_Dragon Says: He was raped._

_DarkAngel Says: Oh Jesus._

_Dragon Says: He's coping. His angry bodyguard is on the alert._

_DarkAngel Says: Ah. That's good that he's there. How is he doing?_

_Dragon Says: Good, other than he's more tightly wound than usual._

_DarkAngel Says: He's always tightly wound, from what your stories say._

_Dragon Says: Our youngest brother asks about you all the time._

_DarkAngel Says: Does anyone else ask?_

_Dragon Says: All about the same._

_DarkAngel Says: Oh._

_Dragon Says: Are you hoping someone else is asking?_

_DarkAngel Says: No._

_Dragon Says: Not even our oldest brother?_

_DarkAngel Says: What makes you ask that?_

_Dragon Says: He seems anxious._

_DarkAngel Says: If he says anything tell him not to worry._

_Dragon Says: Anything else?_

_DarkAngel Says: And tell him that I miss him too._

_Dragon Says: Will do. How's the roommate?_

_DarkAngel Says: Insufferable as always. Ah, Catherine's just getting back now._

_DarkAngel Says: I should go. She wants to show off her new spell book._

_DarkAngel Says: I hope I can go back home soon. Is dad missing me?_

_Dragon Says: Yes, dad's missing you too. All your family is._

_DarkAngel Says: Thank you, Dragon._

_DarkAngel Says: Please be safe._

_Dragon Says: You too, Angel. It won't be long before you're back home and safe with us, I'm sure of it. I'll tell our oldest brother that you miss him._

_DarkAngel Says: Thank you._

_DarkAngel has gone offline._

_. . . ._

_Click._

_Sign out._

_Click._

_. . . ._

_Signed Out!_

George sighed and closed the laptop he had specifically for communicating with Olivia. She was still trying to root out hints from the vampire subculture. But so far, all she'd seen was a lot of pathetic kids either rubbing glitter all over their faces and drinking Clamato Juice in wine glasses, or the serious goth's who had gotten inserts on their teeth and joined covens, either sharing life energy with one another in their circles, or actually drinking blood.

George had nothing against the subcultures. In fact, he found them fascinating. But now he had a strong desire to bring Olivia out of it. Whoever had targeted him and known he was practically leading the case, and likely they knew about Olivia too. She wasn't safe anymore.

George rubbed his neck out of habit - the holes were gone now. They had been since the day before. He thought about how Munch had practically accosted him, dropping all forms of dignity and indifference, begging him to pull Olivia off the case.

They were in love. How hadn't he seen it before?

If Elliot really was in love with Olivia it would break his heart.

_Or perhaps push him closer to you?_

George ignored the voice.

He walked around the dark room. It was a hotel room - tacky, simple patterns on the floor, walls, and bedspread that all matched. A bolted down lamp. Bland pictures. Dark red curtains pulled fast over the windows, keeping out the light. He didn't much care for daylight anymore. It bothered him. Not an itch or a burn, but it bothered him.

He laid down on the bed, not really needing it. He couldn't sleep anyways. He could go into a sort of trance where his mind quieted, but he didn't sleep. He just stared at the ceiling, giving his mind a rest from its thousand mile marathon that it always seemed to be running.

Elliot always made him turn on the lights when he was over, he thought irritably.

He heard steps in the hallway. Elliot was coming to visit. It was funny how he could tell - Kevin Burgess had a heavy step on his left foot. Elliot's steps were equal and fluid, hard on the balls of his feet.

His mind was harder to harness around him now. Three days since the attack and the burn in his throat was getting stronger and stronger. He wasn`t sure how long he could last. How soon would it be before he lost control?

_I need to get back to work before that happens. Then I'll need to disappear so I can't hurt anyone._

He looked at the high stack of folders sitting on a chair. Even in the pitch dark he could see them sitting there.

There was a knock at the door.

Without thinking about it George had turned on the lights in the room and was pulling off the chain. He gave it an appraising sweep knowing nothing was as it shouldn't be. It was disturbing how quickly he could do it - a second had passed, tops.

He opened the door.

Elliot smiled at him, looking, George noticed with a thrill, far too happy to see him than he would a colleague like Fin or Munch.

George broke the doorjamb clenched in his right hand at the sudden, violent urge to keep from killing him.

_Cr-unch!_

"Shit," he said, dropping the piece of moulding.

"What the hell?" said Elliot, looking at the destroyed bit of wood.

"Must be a bad spot," said George, backpedalling as fast as he could without alarming him.

"No kidding," said Elliot, still staring mystified at the doorjamb. "I'll have a word with the manager. You ready to go back to work?"

George nodded, hoping it would be easier to control himself around more people than just Elliot. After all, he didn't have _quite _the urge to kill everyone else.

The back of his mind laughed tauntingly.

"Did you eat?" Elliot asked, scrutinizing him for the millionth time.

"Yes," George replied automatically, pointing to an empty bowl with a bit of oatmeal still clinging to the sides. He hadn't, but oatmeal was easy to flush down the toilet.

"All you eat is soup and oatmeal."

"Can't keep much down," said George, hiding behind a white lie.

He pulled on the last of his work clothes and picked up a few folders he'd need. He was currently researching people within the police force and within the FBI. He had a few people whose personality types might work for his attacker, but so far nothing conclusive.

"A man named Alain Rictor brought over some profiles you wanted," said Elliot. "Weird guy. I think he's in love with himself."

George chuckled. Secretly he'd been hoping that Rictor's personality type would match up in his little search, but Alain Rictor didn't seem right. His voice, or at least the memory George had of it, wasn't right for the breathy, excited man who'd degraded and tortured him. That, and when he'd done a little bit of investigating around him he'd learned that Alain had been out of town on a job that night.

The drive was quiet. Elliot fiddled with his radio while George looked up at the blue sky that appeared in the gaps of buildings behind his sunglasses.

_If I'm a vampire why can I be outside? Whatever happened to exploding or burning?_

The office was the same as ever. Everyone was happy to see him. Well, except for Munch. He just glared from behind his sunglasses as Fin waved at him.

He retreated to his office as soon as he could, shaking Elliot off by convincing him to go talk to Cragen. He wasn't sure if he liked this office more or less than the one he held for the FBI. He shared this one with another psychiatrist whose filing cabinet stood next to his. The other office had a big window, but this one was cozy. Furnished with basics from the police force it was very plain, reminding him of his early days as a doctor.

All alone, his emotions seemed to spread out into a rippling calm. He smacked his lips, trying to get rid of the dry feeling and leaned back in his chair. It was eight in the morning. Figuring Elliot might leave him alone he went into his waking trance, trying to relax and make himself more objective. After about an hour he snapped out of it and went to his research with gusto.

It was noon before he realized it. With his new life he didn't get tired, need to go to the bathroom, and didn't have the raging coffee withdrawals he would have had by this point.

There was a knock at the door. George had been listening to his footsteps for a minute. His breathing was even and he'd been whistling tunelessly.

"Hey Doc, you busy?" Elliot asked.

George looked at the carefully crafted mess that was arranged on his desk. A mass of file folders, pictures, and scrawled notes were strewn about him.

"Come in," he said softly.

"Jeez, George, do you like ruining your eyes?" Elliot asked, turning on the lights.

George had completely forgotten about light. The shades were mostly down, and very little light came in from the alleyway anyway.

"Anyway, got you lunch. Chicken soup, since I know you don't like eating much that's solid right now, and some apples since you need your vitamin C at least. You're getting pale."

George had noticed. Since the attack his skin had gone from its usual tan and had become pale like Elliot's.

Elliot had his own lunch - a philly cheese steak sandwich. He sat down on the chaise lounge and started to eat. George sighed knowing there'd be a trip to the washroom to vomit soon. He started to eat the soup, just focusing on the broth - fluids were much easier to handle.

It was calming listening to Elliot talk about everyone. The broth helped his throat a little.

"Cragen is pulling Olivia back like you suggested," said Elliot after he finished devouring his sandwich.

"Good," said George, pretending to sip nervously at the Starbucks that Elliot had thoughtfully brought him.

"Munch seemed really happy," he said idly. George noticed Elliot looked nervous again and his heart dropped in his chest an inch or two. _Damnit._

Elliot opened his mouth to say something but he hesitated. His blue eyes burned into George's for a moment, he twisted nervously on the chair, and then gathered up his garbage, tossed it into the can by the door, and left, calling over his shoulder, "men's room, be right back!"

George broke the stapler in frustration.

While Elliot was out he poured the soup outside of the window and tossed the apples on the fire escape, feeling guilty. The broth didn't come up, but it gave him a wicked stomach ache.

_How much longer can I do this?_

_Not much,_ a voice replied and George shuddered.

The delicious scent was coming back.

George was trembling. He'd wondered if he was reaching the end of his tether.

_I'm too hungry._

_So fix it!_

_I can't!_

He covered his face with his hands, holding his breath, still able to taste and smell Elliot from what was left on his tongue. He'd finally dissected the scents. _Honeycomb, an orchard in high summer, sweet olive flowers..._

Elliot's footsteps grew closer. George held his body perfectly still.

The door shut. He heard the door lock.

_DON'T DO THAT!_

He could hear Elliot's breathing, his heart beating. There was an instant of pain as something sliced his gums and saliva squirted into his mouth.

_So thirsty._

"George, are you OK?"

_Too close!_

He opened his eyes and looked up. He stood a foot apart from him, his grey-blue eyes too serious. The warmth from Elliot's body was delicious. George couldn't stop himself from breathing in. The sensation was wrought with pain and pleasure.

"George, I need to tell you something."

"Elliot-"

"No. Be quiet. George, I really care about you. More than I should. It's been on my mind for weeks. Months. Ever since the Gallagher case..."

George remembered. The two of them had stayed up late into dark nights looking for clues. They'd gotten to know each other, and then they'd started hanging out after the case had been solved. It wasn't long after that that George had started dreaming of him.

"And now, you were hurt," his voice became rough, "and I almost lost you before I could say this..."

_No. Not now._

His arms grasped his shoulders. He felt the heat through his clothing. His throat started to burn wildly. Sensations he didn't recognize started to jolt from his head to his feet. It took a moment before he realized that it was his new body's form of desire - this wasn't blood pounding in his veins from his erratic pulse, but it had simply begun to flow on its own. His fingertips started to tingle and he let out a slow, shaky breath.

"Elliot, I-"

"George. I want to be with you. I care about you. I need you," he said, his hands vice-like.

_Jesus._

His head felt hot. There was still blood inside, even if there was no heart to beat with it. Desire to kill fought with the desire to be with Elliot.

"I need you too," he murmured, dizzily, trying to clear his mind.

Elliot's mouth found his. It was pleasure to the point of pain. He gasped, his arms wrapped around his shoulders, his hands cupped around the back of his head. Elliot gasped and his fingers wound themselves in his hair. Their bodies entwined. File folders flew as Elliot pushed him against the desk. His scent swirled around George's head. Silky and sweet, hot and wet, their kisses grew deeper and deeper.

_Oh Jesus._

Elliot's fingers stroked the back of his neck.

_Please._

George resisted ripping his shirt open and contented themselves by feeling the rippling muscles on his back. He felt his fangs, sharp and painful. He felt Elliot's pulse beating like a drum, almost like it was exerting its own pressure into the room.

And an innocent swipe of Elliot's tongue ended everything.

Elliot twitched in pain. Something tiny that would not have deterred him.

A drop of blood mixed with their saliva.

A taste one million times sweeter than his scent was on George's tongue.


	5. Tear Down the Walls

Here's the next part!

Chapter Five - Tear Down the Walls

It felt like an eternity to him. Each individual flavour and subtlety of Elliot's blood sang to him. It was like the finest wine in the world. He gasped, his body went rigid and he pressed himself upward into his body.

_AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!_

His hands stopped stroking his back and became vicelike around his shoulders. Normally soft and weak, he was sure Elliot wasn't expecting it when the meek doctor pulled him into himself with almost bone crushing strength.

There was a burn in his throat. His eyes rolled up as he pulled away from Elliot and towards the heat of his neck.

The last piece of the humanity of George Huang cried out.

And with the willpower that even the Master who had done this to him would marvel about he pulled his arms away and shoved, just as his mouth snapped shut with a snap.

Elliot flew across the room. The door shuddered and cracked as Elliot hit back first and fell to the floor.

George shuddered wildly from something like withdrawals.

Elliot groaned. _"George?"_

_No. He doesn't exist anymore._

He turned and leapt at the window. The screen broke and fell to the pavement below.

Elliot lay there nursing an aching back. He wondered if anyone had heard him yell in pain, but he doubted it. The hall had been empty before.

One second they'd been kissing and it had been the greatest moment of Elliot's life since the births of his children. The next second...

... The next second George had gone completely feral.

"George?"

No answer. The room was silent.

_What the hell was that?_

He stood up slowly, his back protesting. He was aware of a sharp sting on his tongue. He spat at the taste of iron. His spit was tinged with blood.

He looked around the room. Empty. No George. Just a mess of file folders, a twisted up set of blinds, and the hot New York wind blowing through the window. The screen was missing.

"George?" he called, louder, distressed now, and ran forward.

The fire escape was empty upwards and downwards. With a jolt, Elliot noticed the spilled soup and discarded apples lying a few feet below him on the rusty grating.

A creeping realization started to crawl up his back. Something he'd been secretly denying to himself was starting to become clear. George wasn't who he was before. Hell, he wasn't even human anymore. A dark phone call a few nights before had alluded to it.

Lying in his bed with the fat, annoying cat sprawled across his head like a fuzzy hat, his cell phone had started to buzz.

He glanced at the time - 2:00 am. _George?_ he'd thought and picked up the call.

"Hello?" he asked.

"Detective. Do you remember me?"

_That voice._ Elliot had bolted up in bed, his cat spitting and yowling as it ran from the room. He'd gripped the sheets in his trembling hands.

"Who the hell are you?"

"No one important. I'm sorry that Dr. Huang died."

"He didn't die!"

The male voice, deep and full of authority, seemed to disagree. "Just because he's walking and talking doesn't mean he's alive, Elliot Stabler. After all, how much food has he eaten? Why does he hide in the dark? Why does he seem to move so quickly? Why is he so afraid to be near you?"

"You're talking crazy."

"Maybe. But if Dr. Huang is really dead like I say he is I hope you realize someone will have to bury him."

"Is this a threat?" Elliot snarled, the hair on the back of his head, neck, and on his arms had risen.

"I wish it were only a threat. But remember, Stabler. If Dr. Huang isn't stopped, he will kill people. He will kill a lot of people. His amazing will power won't hold out forever. You seem to love him. And just remember, if you don't get away from him, you'll be the first one he bites, if I'm not very much mistaken."

The phone had gone dead. He'd reported the call to Cragen and everyone else he could but George. Cragen had agreed that they ought not to increase his anxiety. The call was linked to a tracphone, but they couldn't figure out who they were or where they had gone. Whoever the mysterious caller had been, they'd disappeared like smoke.

That day Elliot had watched George. What the speaker said was true - George preferred to sit in the dark, was fidgety and nervous every time Elliot came near and found an excuse to move. And when he did move it was too fast and too graceful, and with an amount of hesitation that he'd swear meant that George was holding back.

The cincher had come when Elliot had given George a grilled cheese sandwich, once his favourite, and George had tried to eat it and ended up vomiting, just like in the restaurant. He'd chalk it up to stress from the rape, if it wasn't for the fact the garbage was clean of any take out, the complementary hotel coffee hadn't been touched, and there was no chewed, leftover food on the room service tray - no apple cores or bits of bread crusts. Just scraped, empty bowls of easily thrown out soup and oatmeal. When he'd gone to the washroom he'd found oatmeal crusted to the underside of the seat, adding to his unease.

Elliot scanned the alley again and looked back at the door. It was slightly beaten around the hinges, but still worked.

Elliot shut the window with a snap and locked it, and grabbed George's bag with his wallet and keys and left the room. Cragen was having his Thursday meeting, so he made it out of the precinct without anyone questioning where George was, and headed to his car.

The kiss was still sharp in his mind. George's hands exploring, his tongue had been warm in his mouth and his lips soft. But now that he thought about it, was it as warm as it should have been? His hands had been cold, his body had been cool - not hot like he would have expected it. His face had been warm, certainly, but not the rest of him.

And the tooth he'd nicked his tongue on...

The hotel room in queens was like it had been before, dark and devoid of life, so Elliot ran back to his car to head for SoHo. Perhaps George had gone home.

There was a rumble on his phone. Excited, he glanced at it.

_1 New Message(s) from (646) 555 - 2139_

_Be careful Detective. He's dangerous now._

He bristled. Who was this guy who knew so much but wouldn't come forward? Elliot hated people like that, hated secrets.

"Fuck you!" he snapped, throwing the phone into the dash.

One hour later thanks to a little reckless driving on his part he was pulled up, yet again, by George's apartment. His gut was telling him that this was where George would go - that this was his safe place. In all the times that they'd hung out there he'd gotten the feeling that this was his castle. He knew that George had had to flee from his family when he'd tried to come out to them, that they didn't accept him, not even his sister. His family was too traditional. He'd even gone so far as to move his apartment so they couldn't find him until he wanted them to. It was the only place he had.

His phone vibrated again.

_2 New Message(s) from (646) 555 - 2139_

_Don't do it Detective. Leave him._

Elliot scanned the area around him. Some lady taking her dog for a walk. A few kids rollerblading. A bicycle courier weaving through traffic, dodging taxi's. A black guy dancing on a corner. A few bums having a smoke from leftover butts. And plenty of pedestrians.

He called the number but it just rang. No one nearby answered a phone.

Cursing, he turned and went for the door. A nervous man with an unfortunate case of post adolescent acne was picking at his uniform. He rapped on the glass. "Elliot Stabler, NYPD!" he barked, pressing his badge up to the glass at the doorman.

He was let in without hesitation. "Has George Huang been here?"

"N-no sir!" said the young adult, looking alarmed.

Elliot glanced at his reflection in the glass. He didn't exactly look sane.

"Thanks," he muttered, and went for the elevator.

_There is something wrong with George._

Elliot twisted his tie in his hands, staring at the mirror across from himself. Red faced, with a mixture of worry, angry and fear twisted his features.

_There is something very wrong._

He remembered the moment George sighed with ecstasy and the snap of his teeth as he'd thrown Elliot across the room. How easily that snap could have been on his neck, and he'd be lying dead in George's office right now.

_Am I rushing to my death? I must be fuckin' stupid._

His phone vibrated once more.

_3 New Message(s) from (646) 555 - 2139_

_He will kill you._

"FUCK YOU!" he screamed at the phone and snapped it in his hand. He left the remains in a corner and rocketed out the door for the apartment.

He pulled out his key, ripping through the "DO NOT ENTER" tape.

With all of the warning bells, he couldn't see the danger. It was _George,_ and as hard as it was to come to grips with, he was in love with him. And George was just a small, funny, attractive man who happened to like him too. He couldn't be dangerous.

After all, if he was a monster, why did he push him away?

The key slid into the lock and the click was too loud.

He pushed his way into the apartment. CSU had finished with it late last night and the cleaners had yet to show up. Down in the hall the only signs there had been turmoil was the broken glass from the pitcher.

He listened to the apartment, but he couldn't hear anything other than the gurgling of the fish tanks he'd spent the last few days cleaning and feeding.

"George?" he called into the dark hall. "I just want to talk, OK?"

He started easing towards the kitchen, his footfalls soft on the carpet. Soft enough that they wouldn't have alerted a perp, but who knew what was waiting for him. If George was waiting somewhere in the apartment for him, and he was something else, he might have known he was there from the second the elevator door opened.

_He will kill you._

"George wouldn't do that," he whispered, his mouth dry.

His hand twitched to his gun. Should he bring it out? What would be the point? He couldn't imagine shooting George under any circumstances. His fingers itched to draw it, but he curled his hands into fists.

He stepped into the kitchen. In the dim light from the window he could see across into the dining room. It was spotless, the dull, metallic gleam off of the hanging pots made light dance on the walls. As he stepped into the kitchen he felt the hairs on the back of his neck and arms rise - he wasn't alone.

"George, where are you? Why are you hiding from me?" he asked, his voice wavering.

_God, please, I'm so scared._

He stood in the middle of the kitchen thinking about the times they'd stayed up with a bottle of wine laughing and complaining over the B-list movies they liked to rent, Toby weaving amongst their ankles trying to steal a bit of cheese.

He turned to look down where he'd come, but there was nothing but the dim light of the hall. _Whose bright idea was it to pull down all the shades?_

"Why are you here?" said a velvety soft voice from behind him.

Elliot spun around, his hand going back to his gun for a moment. He didn't pull it out, but the cool grip was comforting in his palm.

George stepped from the corner of the dining room, where he'd been indiscernible in the shadows. His eyes glinted oddly in the light - too bright. His pose was relaxed and his face impassive.

Elliot swallowed hard. "George, what's going on?"

George didn't say anything. Didn't move. He just kept staring. His eyes, a chocolate brown that should have been invisible, seemed to be flecked with a golden light that was shining from within.

"George, please, talk to me."

_"A mighty hunter, and his prey was man,"_ he said softly.

Elliot swallowed hard, his heart beating so fast he thought it might burst.

"You are a very stupid thing indeed to come running after me when he tried so hard to save you," said the creature across from him.

"George, what-"

"He's sleeping," said the creature with a hint of amusement.

"Let me talk to him!"

"He's sleeping," he repeated, now stepping back and forth. Elliot was reminded of a man at a museum beholding a priceless work of art. He stepped to and fro, as if trying to find the perfect angle to view him. "Did you know, you smell simply delicious?"

Elliot started to back away.

George matched him step for step.

"George, please, I l-love you, don't do this," he whispered, backing into the wall.

George's face twitched. He was standing across from him, on the other side of the island in the centre of the kitchen. His hands left his pocket and he covered his face.

"George?"

He seemed to hold his breath. He was swaying back in forth, head in his hands, groaning.

Elliot took a half step, all his legs would allow. His instincts were still screaming for him to run for the hills, but he couldn't move.

The scream made every nerve in his body leap. George had thrown himself back into the dining room, crashing into the furthest wall away. His body was shaking and trembling, his arms wrapped around himself as if trying to hold his body together.

"ELLIOT RUN!"

_I can't._

"ELLIOT PLEASE RUN! I CAN'T STOP IT FOR MUCH LONGER!"

_God, why can't I run?_

He fell to the floor in what felt like slow motion. His muscles had seized. He could just make out George's shadow thrashing in the light across from him.

George screamed again, an agonizing sound crossed between pain and desire. His fists crashed into the wall leaving huge cracks in the drywall.

The scream broke into agonized breathing. There was a snarl like that of a lion and a shadow flew gracefully towards Elliot, crouching in terror on the ground. He landed in front of him, no sound made as he absorbed the jump on the balls of his feet.

The figure drew him up into his arms like a lover. His cold lips nuzzled into the side of his face and down to his neck, skimming softly along his pounding veins. There was a sigh of pleasure and then pain as his fangs slid effortlessly into the skin, as a knife into butter.

Elliot convulsed and pushed against George but there was nothing he could do. The small mans arms were like a vice around his shoulders. He was moaning like he was enjoying the finest wine in the world.

Elliot blinked, the room swam in front of his eyes. He wondered why he'd come when he'd been warned, had known that there might be something else behind George's eyes.

_Maureen... Kathleen... Dickie...Lizzie..._

_... George..._

Then he heard the gunshot.

There was an explosion of blood and he hit the ground. His hand found his throat, wet with blood. Clutching hard he gasped and writhed like a fish on the tiles. He saw the shadow rise gracefully and land on the island, sending items skittering onto the floor.

George crouched like a lithe predator, a low growl emitting continuously from his throat.

"So scary," said a voice from the hall.

_The man on the phone._

There were two more gunshots. Elliot arched off the ground, reaching for George as he toppled off of the island and onto the floor, like a bundle of rags.

He gasped. Blood was in his mouth. He could feel it soaking his shoulder, his hair. _How much longer?_

"You are an idiot, detective," said the man, who knelt next to him and pulled him up by his arm. They had what looked like a highlighter in his hand with a sharp needle sticking out of the end. The point bit his flesh and Elliot squirmed, but did not move. The walls were starting to dim.

"Fuck, not you too," sighed the man, who pulled another syringe. He pushed Elliot's hand away, which thudded to the ground. There was another moment of pain as something gooey was forced against his neck and rubbed hard into the holes.

"There, that'll keep you pretty," he said, rolling Elliot onto the ground with a wet splat.

Elliot moaned. His hand went back up to the bite, but the skin was now smooth - or mostly smooth, there were a few ridges. Something like epoxy had been squeezed onto his skin.

"It's a filler to keep you looking nice," said the man, who was putting away his gun. "As the holes heal up it will dissolve until they're gone, and they prevent a scar from forming."

Elliot groaned again and tried to get up. His body felt wasted and drained. He was light headed, as if he'd run for miles on a tread mill with no food. After a moment his muscles gave out and he slumped back onto the wet tiles.

"Just relax, my friend," said the man softly, walking over to George.

"Don't kill him!" Elliot shouted. "Please! Don't kill him! We can find another way!"

The man turned and stared at him.

Elliot blinked. The fog was creeping in more now, the walls were dark and obscure save for the spangled light dancing off the pots. The island began to melt away. The last shadow he saw was the man standing in the light.


	6. Unpleasant Truths

This chapter can get a little boring. Years ago I wrote a lot of vampire stories on a different board, and I sort of began to develop my own style for them. I've added a couple of touches that are unique (I hope). In this chapter they're explained, and I hope it isn't too tedious or boring. Lecture's can only be written so many ways, I guess.

Enjoy!

Chapter Six: Unpleasant Truth's

Elliot woke up in a strange place. The bed was hard, and crinkling with thin paper. A hospital bed then. He looked around, shaking off vertigo as his knees and arms came up and he kicked and grasped the metal railings on each side. He tried to hold himself down as his back arched, trying to right itself. The world spun around him and all he could make out was the brown color of the ceiling and white cabinets blurring together as he shook his head. He felt exhausted - it was like the dark period between being completely trashed and passing out, puking your guts out and wishing you'd die.

He felt a tug on his arm and winced in pain. There was a low, dull burn on his neck as he shook his head. The room started to focus, blurred colors taking on texture and stopping their swirling mayhem. He looked over at his left hand. An IV was taped with a dark red line running up to a machine. A bag of the red was suspended on a hook, three quarters spent.

Blood. Ugh.

"Uhnn."

_How long have I been out?_

He felt like he'd been sleeping for days.

Elliot blinked, trying to make sense of the bag and gave up. He rolled again, feeling sick and restless. As a better level of control started to return to him he sat up to examine his surroundings.

The room was plain, almost hospital like. White cabinets and a stainless steel fridge lined the walls next to him. The floor was tiled and basic. The only other furniture in the room was a stool pulled up to the cupboards where he presumed someone might work from time to time.

He looked down at himself. His clothes were different - a pair of his old jeans and a white T-shirt. He was confused about that one and decided not to worry. Mystery man must have fetched him clothing. His others were probably too bloody to use.

There was a beep at a tiny panel near the door. Elliot looked over to see a woman enter. He recognized her as the photographer from the hospital. Her too-green eyes blinked serenely at him and a wide smile split her tiny face.

"Few more minutes and I'll take you off your IV - you lost a lot of blood, but your color is back now. You've already used up a few bags. Shame you have such a rare blood type too, but we had a couple that were compatible."

Elliot shook his head a moment. "My blood type?"

"Don't know it?"

"Umm."

"AB negative. You can only accept donors from other negatives. Lucky we had some O negative, since we didn't have any of the others. Hard to get new stock sometimes."

She turned and leaned against the stool, smiling at him. He wondered if she was all there - there was something vacant behind her eyes, but he had the feeling she missed very little.

Elliot blinked at her, and looked up at the blood. He wet dry lips and looked around the room again. "Where am I?"

"Kris's place," she replied easily. "He's the one that saved you and brought you here."

Blurry memories. He could remember George, felt the pull of lust at their kiss, then the fear as he turned feral and attacked him, almost dying. And finally the rescue, and the sharp gunshots. George's shadowy form tumbling to the floor.

Elliot tugged at the IV. "Where's George?"

The girl looked uncomfortable. She scratched the back of her leg with one foot.

There was another beep from the panel. The door opened and a man walked in. He was maybe Elliot's height, but long muscled and slim with blue eyes that were the color of ice. He certainly didn't look like what Elliot had started to think of him – like some Blade wannabe vampire slayer. He wasn't the imposing, all knowing character from his imagination. This guy looked like he belonged in a library.

"I'm Kris Brown," said the man, walking forward and holding out his hand.

Elliot glared at him, not offering his own. "Where is George?"

Kris didn't say anything for a moment. He felt like he was being scanned by those eyes. "Well it looks like your neck is fine. It'll heal up in another day. You've been snoring like a chainsaw for a full day now."

"Where. Is. _George?"_ he snarled.

Kris grinned. "Alright, fine. He's as alive as he can be, considering the circumstances. Gabby, when he's done can you take him down to see him in the lab, OK? Then you've got to run to work."

"Yes sir!" she chimed.

Kris left the room. Elliot glared at the door, glanced at Gabby, then started pulling at the IV again.

"Just leave it, another few minutes and you'll be right as rain to go," she scolded.

Elliot endured impatiently. Gabby tried in vain to start a conversation, but Elliot glowered at the shut door, ignoring her. She removed the IV when the bag was empty, checked his vitals and passed him with a clean bill of health.

Rubbing his bandaged hand he followed her down a hallway. It was carpeted in grey with plain white walls and florescent lights. It looked like it could be an office building anywhere, and there were no windows or sounds of outside traffic to let on where he might be. She opened a door and let him pass her.

Elliot blinked in the new light. It was much brighter in here, the halogen lights bright to the point of giving the sterile, white room a blue cast. Kris sat at a computer console typing away and examining several moving diagrams of what looked like DNA, sipping coffee.

The room had an operating table and everything Elliot had seen before in Miranda's lab – cell separators, fridges full of blood and several faintly beeping instruments he had no name for. At the back of the lab was a caged off area with another table.

"George!" he yelled, running up to a clear plastic wall. Amazing how just seeing him brought back a whirl of emotion - pain, fear, love, anger. He bit his lip, struggling with everything.

George, pale against the plain table, was strapped down. He wasn't moving or struggling, just lying there like he was asleep. Elliot couldn't help but notice that his body was more muscular than when he'd last seen him topless, more sculpted and powerful looking. What had been a soft bodied, mild looking man had turned into an athlete.

"Don't worry about him," said Kris mildly.

"Why not? He looks-"

"Dead? That's because he is, jackass. He's not really asleep either, just sedated."

Elliot bristled. "What the hell is going on? Explain everything to me. In English."

Kris grinned.

_Wiseass,_ thought Elliot.

George felt strange. He could tell he was trancing, but he was unable to break it. He tried pulling his thoughts together, but it was muddy and weak.

_Like my old brain,_ he thought with a measure of bitterness.

He reached his feeling into his body. There was something that didn't belong there, and it was causing it. He felt loose and giddy when he pondered the smell coming off of him, like it was weed, or something close to it. Maybe like he was drunk.

He forced himself to feel further into his body. He tried to force feeling to his legs and arms, fingers and toes, but it was like there was a heavy cage perfectly sculpted to his musculature set over top of him, a fine coat of steel that had replaced his skin. He tested every muscle, but they didn't want to obey. There were clamps on his wrists and ankles, and these angered him, but he couldn't will himself to break them.

The scent made him dizzy, made it hard to focus. It was like a faint green ribbon.

Something twined with it. A crimson ribbon began to twist and coil around it, undulating in the nothingness.

_Elliot,_ his mind sighed, and every cell in his body felt warm.

With only one part of his mind able to focus it was easy to force down the one that was hungry. It slept quietly somewhere far away, small growls and turns testament to its existence. He was able to focus on information that made his body want to sigh in happiness.

_Elliot cares for me!_

He wished he could smile.

_Elliot is near to me._

Muddy sounds found their way to him.

_"George!"_

_Elliot is anxious. _The red ribbon was releasing not just his warm, comforting and tantalizing scent, but it was also laced with anxiety, fear, pheremones, anger...

_Elliot needs me._

_I must protect him._

The steel around George's left hand weakened slightly. He twitched the tip of his ring finger.

Kris took a long sip of coffee and pushed away from the computer. He walked alongside Elliot to stare at the pale, spread eagle form of George Huang who lay deathly still on the table. Metal clamps gleamed dully in the bright light against his wrists and ankles. The sight made Elliot want to puke.

"Have you figured out what he is?" Kris mocked.

"A vampire, obviously. With some flaws," said Elliot, stepping up to the thick plastic barrier between the two of them.

"Flaws? And what are those?" asked Kris.

Elliot glanced at Kris. "Well... the stereotypes. Other than drinking blood and the superhuman stuff, he doesn't do anything else. Sunlight, sleeping during the day, turning into a bat, hating the cross. I mean, he was examining a few the other day and nadda."

Kris shrugged. "But mirrors, being unable to enter a house when he isn't invited..." Kris sighed. "I hate explaining this to people, but there are four different classifications of vampires. Class one's are savage, twisted, evil beings that need to feed and kill constantly, like a ghoul. Class two's are closer to humans, weaker and need to feed often. Both of these will die in sunlight and need to trance during the day. Type one's can't even stand bright lights, so you normally only find those policing the subways and sewers.

"George, however, is a type three. These are very powerful, have superhuman strength, speed, and intelligence. They don't need to feed as much and can stand full sunlight, but they don't like it. They can blend in with humans if they have the willpower, but few do.

"A type four is what sired him. Type four's are deadly. They are a step beyond what George has become - not to mention they develop _powers_ for lack of a better word. When type three's get old enough they become classified as ancients. I've seen them able to levitate things around them and start fires with their minds. They don't need to feed much and have none of the weaknesses of the others."

Elliot glanced at Kris. "Weaknesses? Like a stake to the heart?"

Kris smiled, sipping his coffee again. "You can use stakes to kill the first two types, but their bodies get too strong after that. Silver will also harm types one to three, the damage lessening with each level. A silver bullet or two will outright kill a type one, but cause nothing but a lot of pain to a type three. And of course types one to three are effected strongly by wolfbane, a powerful substance that when inhaled will cause a euphoric sensation not dissimilar to catnip for cats. When injected it works like an extremely powerful sedative. This is what is keeping George in a trance."

"So why is George a type three?"

"Because I think an ancient made him. And if George tried to sire one, he'd make a type two. And if a type two tried to sire one it would be a type two as well. Type one's are made on purpose, by botching the siring process. They are savage, deadly creatures, and the biggest pain in the ass usually."

Elliot knew there was a lot more to it than what he was being told so far, but didn't let it bug him. He pressed his hand to the plastic divider.

_George is a monster._

Why was he able to handle that notion like he did? Why was he here? The man lying on the table in front of them was dangerous. If he was roused he could destroy the table, the wall between them, and murder everyone in the room possibly in a matter of seconds.

So why was he able to keep standing here, feeling anxious and worried?

_Because I'm an idiot and fell in love with him. George is still in there, despite the savagery._

Elliot swallowed hard and leaned his head against the cool plastic. _I am an idiot. _

"There was a reason George picked you and no one else," said Kris quietly. "You're an anomaly. One in a million people are special, appeal more to vampires. We're not sure why it is, I can't see any anomalies in your DNA, but we know that people like you don't get visions when bitten. You didn't see anything when he started feeding, did you?"

"Just the ceiling."

"And was it painful?"

"Yes," Elliot replied dully, trying not to remember.

"Well, for everyone else it's a level of pleasure akin to an orgasm that just won't quit. And their mind tricks don't work on you. Level three's can be extremely persuasive and charismatic, getting whatever they want from whomever they want, and ancients can actually hypnotize people to do their will. _Vampyr Custodis._ Vampire Guardian."

Elliot shrugged. "So that's why he wanted to eat me?"

"You smell better for them. Some people call them the "Vampire Lovers" because some vampire's, if they find one and don't kill them, take them for their own. Like a pet they can feed on. I've seen ones before that were just like that - dogs that do their vampire's will because they are in love with them."

"Ugh."

"What?"

"That word."

"Which one?"

"The V word." It sounded like a swearword almost now. Vampire was just something silly to do with horror movies before. That they were actually real was frightening and a little nauseating.

Kris chuckled.

Elliot sighed. "When can George wake up?"

"When I'm done talking to you," Kris replied.

The Master pouted, sitting at a window seat with his legs dangling. He was watching the city moving outside. Thomas puttered around the house cleaning like a good boy, leaving The Master to sit in want. After all, Thomas was nothing if not meticulous.

The Master sipped at the red elixir in the snifter close at hand. It most certainly wasn't brandy. Thomas's own vintage. The Master chuckled darkly, enjoying the taste. He wished there were more like his little pet wandering the world. He had his suspicions about the Black King, but he couldn't be sure.

Thomas came into the room. He was dressed casually in a white, tight fitting tank top and clean black slacks. The top accentuated his well built pectorals, rippling six pack, delicious shoulders...

The Master licked his lips. He was salivating. Best to let Thomas finish his cleaning before he threw him onto the bed and had his way with him.

Thomas finished vacuuming and left to put it away. After a few more minutes of tinkering Thomas came back and sat on the couch holding a can of juice and smiling at The Master.

"Beautifully done," he said to Thomas.

His pet glowed under the praise. "Thank you, Master."

"I've lost sight of my little doctor," said The Master, swinging his legs a moment before curling up into the velvet cushions clustered on the window seat. The sunlight almost made his skin warm.

Thomas didn't say anything, just stared.

"He's not dead at least," said The Master, looking into the hazy blue sky over New York, his golden flecked eyes unfocused, lazy. "But he's been in Trance for an unusually long time. I think he's sedated."

Thomas nodded. "Perhaps The Order got to him."

"Probably," said The Master dismissively. "Those silly, stupid little slayers can be _very_ annoying. I shouldn't have Sired Huang."

There was a long pause while The Master listened to Thomas's heartbeat. The house made soft settling sounds. He could hear crows behind the house. He clicked his fingernails against the snifter, then drained it in one draught.

Licking his lips he stood up and sauntered over to Thomas.

"I'll kill him when I find him next," he said, sliding into his pet's lap.

"Whatever makes you happy, Master," said Thomas.

The Master situated himself carefully, rubbing up against Thomas, who was already getting hard. He ground against him for a moment, enjoying the sensation, wishing he could sink his fangs into Thomas's neck, but knowing that he had to let him heal for another day or so.

"Do you know what would make me happy right now, Thomas?" he purred, running his tongue from Thomas's collarbone up along his hard muscled neck to his ear. He pulled hard on the leather collar.

"I can guess," said Thomas, scooping his Master up in his arms and carrying him to the bedroom.

Elliot stood looking at a corkboard displaying a number of pictures, news paper articles and files that weren't dissimilar to his own corkboard at the 1-6. It was showing the same cases as his own. Kris apparently had been conducting his own investigation.

Elliot was staring at a picture of Danni, the woman whom he'd had a brief fling with. Very brief. It had been a mistake, the memory didn't even make him excited anymore.

"What is her picture doing here?" he asked quietly.

"Danni is an operative for The Order. She was investigating Fin while it was apparent that he was having contact with a vampire, though he didn't realize it," said Kris.

"What do you mean?"

"One of his old friend's friends," he replied. "Doesn't matter. The man was killed right away by another operative. She didn't have to stay longer than necessary."

Elliot grunted. The Order, as Kris explained it, was sort of like an underground police force that managed the vampire population. Most of them held steady jobs as hospital workers, police officers, and in the courts. They were like a union, as best Kris could describe. Elliot was uncomfortable to know how many people he'd known were a part of it - like Alex and Danni.

His eyes roamed over the corkboard.

"If you knew there was a vampire killing people and getting into the paper why didn't you kill him before he got as far as he did?" asked Elliot, glowering at the photo of the last victim, Ed Gontier.

Kris sighed. "Because we couldn't be positive if it was a vampire. The killings were serial, like a human would do if they were emulating a vampire. We couldn't prove anything anymore than you could, we couldn't find anything from the evidence anymore than you could. In fact, the only time I'd picked up on it was when George was attacked It was a blue moon, which is for lack of a better word magic. It makes older vampires go into a sort of heat, they get savage and want to make more of themselves. When he went for George I remembered his name and realized he was part of the serial cases and that was when I knew."

"And you couldn't kill him _because?"_

"Because ancients are extremely difficult to kill and I would have died and George would still be where he is, or dead."

"So why did you send me?"

"Because I knew you wouldn't make it in time, but I figured he wouldn't kill you when he woke up. Like it or not, I gambolled on you with your life. Rather than letting his land lady or someone get murdered, I figured that since George cared about you he'd hold on to humanity long enough for me to find a good way to get to him."

"And your crazy phone call?" he snarled.

"To see how much you loved him," he replied quietly. "I'm sorry I had to use you."

Elliot rankled. Who did this puny little shit think he was, playing with his life, throwing caution to the wind? He could have killed the monster that did this to George, and here he was calling and mocking him, seeing how the chessboard laid out while people were dying?

He felt his palms tingling. He felt the urge to hit something, and only a quiet voice in the back of his head cautioned him against attacking Kris. Up close he could tell that the man had complete control over his body, and the rippling muscles beneath his shirt were indication of his strength.

"I need George, it's why he's still alive," said Kris. "To be frank, I don't care about either of you. It would hurt you if he died, but you'd be better off than to be in love with an immortal. An immortal who will always, no matter what he's saying and doing, will want to kill you."

"I won't let you kill him."

"Like you could stop me. Even if you attacked me this second, I could kill you and him within a matter of minutes and be on my way."

Elliot's anger rippled, but he heard the promise in the sentence. "So why not then?"

"Because George is a profiler, and I need his help to find the vampire responsible. He knows how this bastard thinks, and though he doesn't realize it yet he has a lock on him mentally - he can sense his Sire's longings and thoughts. And I could use his strength to kill the ancient responsible. After all, did I say how to kill one of them?"

"No," said Elliot.

"You have to behead him and burn the body to ashes. Not something I can easily do - you need many slayers to keep them distracted enough to be able to cut them, and only then with a silver sword - or pure, brute strength like another vampire has. Like George has. I need both of you."


	7. Animal

Chapter Seven - Animal

The steel had withdrawn from his fingers now - he could feel them moving. He wished it would leave his mind, but at least he had his hand. His palm flexed. Strength rippled in his arm like coiled steel. Cool metal pressed into his wrist, suppressing him like some kind of animal.

_I will show you animal._

It was hard to hear, but Kris was talking to Elliot in low tones.

The one who'd shot him. His memories were still able to be reached through the sedation, fortunately without the feelings that went with them. He could see the man, too-clear in the dim light of his kitchen, raising the barrel of the gun a micro second before the gun fired and George had released Elliot's neck. And the _pain._ As if the bullet wound wasn't enough, the burning in his system was beyond anything he'd experienced - like tongues of fire licking up and down his nerve endings. And as if it hadn't been enough he'd been shot twice more.

Kris, a hunter of vampires, was near enough that a ribbon of pale blue had begun to coil around Elliot's crimson red. The scent wasn't nearly as luscious, and not appealing in the least. It was like the girl from the hospital - strong and repugnant, like acid and moth balls.

Tremors of scent started to fray off of the ribbon. Elliot had been as calm as he could be for a while, but now he could sense anger and fear again.

Elliot was yelling. George wanted to snarl. He couldn't hear the words - the sedation was making it too difficult to focus on it - but Elliot was mad at Kris. Elliot needed protecting.

His strength coiled tighter. He felt the muscles in his arms respond, pulling and tensing.

His head began to clear as his chest broke free of the steel blanket. He took a deep breath, deeper than he had been able to before and started cataloguing his surroundings. A low burn began in his throat, but thirst was far down on his list of worries.

"Is that a threat?" he heard Elliot say.

His head swam as the response turned strange in his ears.

"... I could kill you and him within a matter of minutes..."

He wanted to snarl, he wanted to roar, but he was impotent on the table. He felt his muscles bunch repeatedly. Feeling was creeping down to his legs and up to his right arm. He took another deep breath - Elliot's scent sent a white hot burn through his body and Kris's scent mocked him.

Instincts started to rise. His other thoughts - _thirst, killing, revenge -_ began to bubble under his own.

_Ping!_ Without thinking about it the metal snapped off of his left hand. His arm was free. His chest and head were nearly free too. A loud, ripping growl tore from his throat.

There was a shout from the two humans.

In another moment the right brace snapped off and his back arched with freedom. _PING! PING!_ The two attached to his ankles twisted and broke under the force.

The fog left his eyes. The metal tiled ceiling came into view - the sterile room swirled about him as he jumped backwards, arching gracefully in the air, taking stock of every detail - the smooth walls of the prison, the table which had held him, all the instruments and computers and bright white-blue halogen light, and the humans racing over to him from a corkboard. In the second he acknowledged it he saw photos of people who'd died and his own suspects mingled amongst newspaper clippings.

He landed on the pads of his feet and curled his back like a cat for a moment, sighing in freedom as the last of the drug was burned off.

The blonde human had pulled out a gun. The other - this one's scent made his throat ache and sent his nerves spiralling out of control with desire - was pounding on the divider.

_"GEORGE! GEORGE CALM DOWN!"_

What racket.

The gun was a weapon. A weapon that had caused him considerable pain. The memory of the burn flashed through his mind. First the repulsive smelling miscreant would die, then the one with the pleasurable scent.

_But Elliot was to be protected,_ protested a quiet voice in the back of his mind.

Before he was able to fully form the thought he'd already launched through the plastic prison as if it had been a thin wall of cotton gauze. He absorbed his landing on all fours and turned to the slayer with the gun.

He flew forward again, his nerves one step behind his muscles. He pummelled the human, sending him flying into the corkboard. Pictures and papers flew everywhere while he slid to the ground.

He snarled, preparing himself, taking his time with the hunt while Kris recovered.

A presence, the red ribbon, was behind him, grabbing him around the neck. The presence disorientated him, kept him from reacting.

"George you stupid bastard, snap out of it!" it roared.

_George. You're George, and you're supposed to protect Elliot._

It was too late, an arm had already twisted around and had thrown the interloper away like trash. It groaned in pain.

_You are George Huang. You aren't like this._

He snarled, a deep guttural sound as he stood up, preparing to launch over to the one with the gun and snap its neck.

_You are not an animal! You are George Huang, and you are in love with Elliot Stabler! You are NOT AN ANIMAL!_

He heard a series of sounds. There was a click of a hammer. An almost deafening explosion, and the sound of a bullet racing towards him. Elliot groaned in pain and sent a shoot of remorse through his body. The bullet hit his hard muscles and stopped short of major organs or tissues, but the silver caused the burn.

_YOU ARE NOT AN ANIMAL!_

"Elliot," he breathed, falling backwards onto the ground.

Elliot was stumbling to his feet, swaying nearby, looking cautious. Kris had his gun levelled on him and was marching forward. He stopped short of him and dug in one of the refrigerators, pulling out an Epipen.

The burn made each movement agonizing. He looked at his shoulder and saw the bullet already being pushed out, but it was still doing its job.

"Elliot," he said louder. "I'm not an animal. I'm sorry."

Kris laughed, a low, sarcastic sound. "Give me a good reason not to sedate you again. Actually, give me a good reason not to unload an entire clip of silver bullets into your ass and kill you."

George gasped as the silver bullet left his body and hit the ground with a faint tinkling noise. He looked around the lab again, focused on Elliot, who looked terrified.

"Elliot, I'm sorry, I was just going to protect you from him," he tossed his head, his breath coming out in another growl, "but my other instincts snapped out of the sedation."

The pain started to recede and he shuddered. Kris was too close now for his comfort, and his skin prickled. He leapt away and landed on the table that had clamped him down, the movement quick and almost disorientating in his current state.

Elliot was frozen, hands still out. Kris's gun retrained on him.

"I won't lose control again," he said.

Kris laughed again, devoid of humour. "Until you get hungry and take another chunk out of Elliot."

His throat burned and he swayed dizzily. He _was_ still thirsty, and his mind was urging him to kill Kris and Elliot, taking his sweet, delicious time with the latter. He licked his lips and forced his thoughts away.

"No. No I won't. I'll find a way so I won't."

He looked back up at the two of them, standing amongst the wreckage of the laboratory. He stared at Elliot, catching his blue eyes. He had to fight down the swirl of emotions and focus on Elliot. He loved him - it hurt to see the terror there.

"Elliot, _trust me."_ He knew that it sounded stupid and hopeful, but what could he do? "Elliot, I love you. Do you want me to go away? Do you want me to let him," he swallowed hard, "do you want me to let him sedate me and kill me?"

That brought a reaction. Elliot's face relaxed a little.

There was a long pause. George held his breath. "No, I don't want you to die or go away," he said. "I might be stupid, but I _do_ trust you."

Kris chuckled again.

"Fine. Fine, this'll work," he said, setting the Epipen down, but not holstering the gun. "I'm going to get you a bag of blood to drink," the thought brought another flash burn, "so you won't be so hungry. After we'll discuss options about feeding. Don't kill Elliot while I'm out of the room."

"I won't," George muttered, glowering. It didn't look as though Kris had heard him. The slayer left the room, leaving George and Elliot staring at each other.

Elliot still looked terrified. George tried to swallow down the wave of sadness. "I'm so sorry. You must be really frightened of me now."

Elliot blinked, looking bemused, then shook his head. "No. I'm... well, yes I am terrified, but... not of this part of you. Of the other."

George agonized. "I will not let myself lose it again, Elliot. I will not hurt you or anyone else again."

_With an exception to the one who did this to me, of course._

George realized that he was still frozen in a crouch. He relaxed out of it, controlling his motions to seem more human. He slipped off the table and looked around. He was mostly naked, he noticed, looking down at himself, abashed at the sight of the hard muscles that were never there before.

He glanced up. Elliot was blushing, sending little flares of heat into the air. He smiled.

"Do I embarrass you?" George murmured, looking for clothes.

Elliot shrugged. "I guess not. No. You're just... built really well. It's... attractive," he said.

George felt his nerves tingle with pleasure. Becoming this thing at least hadn't killed that aspect of his life.

He walked over and looked up to Elliot, who was still wary.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

Elliot smiled at him, the anxiety finally withdrawing. Then his smile faltered, and turned to sadness. "Why would you be sorry? This isn't your fault."

George made a face. Tentatively he leaned into Elliot's warm arms. They were so hot it was almost like a burn without pain. He moaned happily, a smile playing on his lips. After a moment Elliot's arms wrapped around him and he sighed. If his heart could beat he knew it would be going full force, just like Elliot's was, thrumming beneath his ear.

"I'm sorry that I'm such an animal," he whispered.

"You're still George in there. I understand," Elliot replied, squeezing him tighter.

"I love you."

"You too," said Elliot.

A warm hand hooked under his chin and tilted his head up. Feverish lips pressed against cold ones. They curved together, mouths opening and gasping. George didn't need to hold onto his instincts, all aspects of his mind were focused on the feelings coursing through his body like bolts of electricity. His heart gave a feeble thump and he moaned, wanting more.

"Ahem."

George had been so preoccupied he hadn't even heard the door open. Not that he cared. He took stock of where he was and noticed he was curved indecently against Elliot's body, and that they'd backed up into the table.

Elliot chuckled and released him.

"Stabler, I need you out in the hallway first. George, Don't move," said Kris, standing half in the doorway.

Elliot raised one eyebrow, but said nothing and walked into the hallway, leaving George alone. Kris flung some clothing into the room, then stepped inside, holding a large plastic bag - George's nostril's flared as the scent registered with him - of a sloshing red liquid.

Saliva squirted into his mouth and his fangs sliced out of his gums as the low burn in his throat flared.

Kris set the bag down and slipped out the door.

George needed no more prompting.

Elliot followed Kris down the hallway and into a small room that looked like a break room. There was a small, round table, cupboards and cabinets, a refrigerator, an oven, and a microwave. There was a pot with a lid sitting on warm on the stove, and a colander in the sink full of pasta.

"Hungry?" asked Kris. "Looks like Gabby made spaghetti."

"Ravenous," said Elliot around a stomach growl.

Kris loaded them each up a plate and set them down at the table. Elliot started eating with gusto - Gabby was a good cook. He tried not to think of George down the hall, and what he was eating. Kris handed him a cup of coffee and sat down across from him.

"So..." said Elliot, trying to remember not to talk with a mouthful, "where are we?"

"The Hampton's," said Kris.

"The... Hampton's. As in, way out on Long Island, the Hampton's? Like where Paul McCartney lives?"

"He's up the road," said Kris mildly. "He doesn't like me much. No one out here does. Apparently I'm not enough of a snobby, old money socialite. That, and everyone wants to see the inside of the famous _Jackson Estates."_

"Woah, what? Like as in Camella Jackson?"

Kris nodded. "Mom."

Elliot stared. Camella Jackson was the last of the Jackson's, a very powerful family from England. She had been big in Hollywood, doing a few movies, and had won an Oscar for Best Actress for one of them. Elliot couldn't remember which ones - the thing that he remembered best was that Camella Jackson and the man she married, Jordan Jackson, had both been murdered along with one of their sons, Oz Jackson and their only daughter Kate Jackson, in their mansion in the East Hamptons. The case had never been solved.

"So this is where..."

"Uh huh," said Kris. "I was at college at the time. Anyway, since the place is big, I have my little operation behind the scenes, and keep a few of the rooms up like they always have been just in case anyone comes knocking."

Elliot stared at Kris, who was pawing through the paper. He started to eat again.

"So was their death what started your crusade against vampires, or was that Jordan Jackson's side business when he wasn't making miracle drugs in the pharmaceutical business?"

Elliot jumped and Kris turned his glare to George, who was leaning causally against the wall. "Do you mind announcing your entries?"

Elliot examined George's attire - plain black slacks and a black, long sleeved shirt. Barefoot still. Elliot tried not to think about how he'd like to rip the clothing back off of him.

George shrugged. "Sorry if you're both unobservant."

Kris sighed and turned the page in the newspaper. "Never mind what started me," snapped Kris. "I'm not open to discussing my past."

George shrugged again, eying Elliot's plate.

Elliot swallowed a bite and looked at him. "Miss human food?" he asked.

George shook his head. "No."

"Why?"

"You don't want to hear that answer," said Kris mildly. "Just leave it at no."

Elliot spun his fork in his spaghetti, shuddering a little. He couldn't imagine how blood could be nicer than a good steak and a beer, but he supposed it went with the territory.

When they were done eating Kris cleared away the table. He stood, leaning against the counter and staring at George, who was examining the suspended tile ceiling with a look of utter boredom. Elliot noticed a distinctive flush to his cheeks - perhaps feeding helped with his color.

"I need your help, George. In exchange, you and Elliot get to live happily ever after for as long as that's possible."

George snorted, the sound humourless. Elliot wondered why, but didn't say anything.

"If you agree to use Elliot as a food source indefinitely, if you can even feed without killing him, I will supplement your supply of blood as best I can with my resources until you can keep to feeding once a week or so."

George twitched uncomfortably, but didn't respond.

"George will use me?" he asked, looking surprised.

"Yeah, if you agree to be his donor. Of course, there's always the chance that he'll kill you every time, but if you want him to live without becoming a murderer you need to help out."

George looked across at them, his eyes dark and glowering. They were starting to become speckled with a bright, bronze color.

"What about animal blood?" Elliot asked. "Like cows or something?"

Kris shook his head. "It won't sustain him. Animals just don't work - although some vamp's try. And eventually they snap, murder a pile of people, and go back to their old ways."

George looked sad, but didn't speak. He was perched on the top of a chair now, resting on the pads of his feet.

"Alright, if it keeps him honest," said Elliot. "He can bite me."

George gasped, there was a crunch and his hand went through the drywall. Elliot saw the two, sharp fangs that had appeared in his mouth. "Don't say that!" he said, staring at the detective with wild eyes. "You have no idea how hard it is not to think about you in that way, and how much it hurts physically and mentally when I do!"

"Deal with it," snapped Kris. "Or I kill you sooner rather than later. You have to accept that you can't be supported on donated blood your whole existence - especially in the early stages. You need so much, I don't know how we'll deal with it for the next year or so before your appetite reels in, even with Elliot helping."

George snapped his mouth shut, fuming.

"Now for the next part, I need you to help me with the ancient that's killing so many people, now that we know he's a vampire. I need you to compare what evidence I have with your own, so we can start narrowing down a list. I know you want to kill this guy, so we should start soon. Another advantage we have is you're mentally linked with him - and once you kill him it should be easier to be human. After all, I'm more than willing to bet he's affecting how you feel about all of this."

"Alright," he replied. "I'll help. But I get to be the one to rip him limb from limb."

Elliot shuddered at the dark promise.


	8. The Night

Chapter Eight - The Night

Elliot looked at his cell phone, counting the days. Two since George attacked him, three since George was Sired. He had a lot of missed calls from the captain and was trying to think of good excuses to use, but none would work. Tomorrow morning he was going to be in an amazing amount of shit. Up to his neck.

"Hello Don, don't worry about George and I, he's just become a vampire, tried to kill me, and we nipped off to the Hampton's for a bit to talk with a slayer who's going to help us hunt down the serial killer, who incidentally is a vampire too."

Yeah, _that_ would be a good conversation. Next thing he would know he'd be in a straight jacket.

He tucked the phone into his jeans. George was sitting on the balcony of his condo, staring off into the dark night. Elliot felt a flutter of fear and anticipation when he thought about the fact they were alone.

Kris assured him that the evidence there was an attack in the apartment had been taken care of. Don had already had people swarming over George's apartment, the hotel room he'd been staying at, and his place. A pair of uniforms were sitting outside watching the place. Unobservant, they missed Elliot and George sneaking around the back.

"I need to talk to Don, so we need to get a story straight," Elliot said to the empty living room.

A George-sized shadow appeared outside the window and slipped in through the screen door.

"I've been thinking about that," he said.

Elliot took a sip of rum from a glass sitting at his elbow. He'd been nursing it for an hour anxiously in the dark - they couldn't turn on the lights because of the uniforms. Soon they'd have to leave and announce their return.

George watched him in the darkness, looking at ease with himself. His eyes seemed to glow, but that was because they reflected light like an animals. Elliot could see the green reflection mingling with the bronze color.

"We'll go back and say I ran away and you followed. You talked me out of committing suicide."

"That won't work," said Elliot, "you'll be committed and no good to anyone."

"All I need to do is pass a quick psyche test and you'll have to watch me even more. Easy. We might even be able to skip that part if we talk directly to Don."

Elliot played with the glass with his fingertips.

"Don't worry," said George softly, walking up to him.

Elliot looked down at George. "I'm still working all of this through my head. There must be something wrong with me that I'm not running away screaming."

George smiled. "Well... I've always known there was something wrong with you."

He stretched up onto his tip toes, setting cold hands against Elliot's shoulders, and kissed his wrinkled forehead. George's cool breath and soft lips helped Elliot relax. He tilted his head, dislodging George and finding his lips.

The kiss was small, but both of them shivered. Cold lips worked against warm ones. Elliot set down the glass and wrapped his arms around him, sighing in satisfaction. He stepped into George, leaning over him and cursing their height.

"You won't... bite me right now, will you?"

"I'm full. Not thirsty at all," said George, smiling.

The two of them stumbled a few feet. Heat started to break out in waves on Elliot's skin. He gasped, clutching the back of George's head, pressing himself into him.

"I'm not planning on letting you go again," said Elliot.

"I'm counting on that," said George.

Elliot wasn't sure how they made it to the bedroom. The bed was cold but quickly warmed up, like George's skin. Elliot had enough warmth for the both of them.

George turned in the sheets feeling feverish and sweaty. The sweat wasn't his - George had a feeling that, like with other bodily functions, he didn't do that anymore. He slipped out, thanking the powers that be that Elliot wasn't a snuggler - the second unconsciousness took him he rolled over on his own. Turns out he was a blanket thief, which didn't matter - George didn't really need them.

He looked about for his clothes, finding different articles about the house - pants in the hallway, underwear in the bedroom, shirt on the stairs, one sock in the living room and one - somehow - in the restroom. He didn't need his shoes, but he pulled them on anyway as he wandered out into the backyard.

The night air sang to him as he stepped about on the grass, the tiny lawn surrounded by an old wooden fence. The grass needed cutting, George noted as he walked through it to peer up at the stars.

He found he could look through the orange city light to see the stars, like there was a film between him and the sky. He felt alive, electric like a wire. Sex had never been that good alive, though it might have had something to do with the fact that it was Elliot who'd been with him. Sensations like electricity had rolled through him, forcing his blood to move without a heartbeat, rushing through him like a swift running river.

The hunger had been completely sated. Once he'd gotten full he found that while his throat might burn a little and his fangs would come out, proximity with Elliot wasn't an issue. His strength was another matter, but he didn't think he'd left anything more than a few bruises. He giggled in the darkness - imagine, worrying about being stronger than Elliot when the man was a walking brick wall.

George found the idea absurd, and after a moment a sad reality as he ran his hands over hard muscles. His flesh was... different. Not rock hard, but tougher. Still soft, but it was like someone had woven his tissues with Kevlar. He flexed, and wondered what another of his own kind felt like.

He closed his eyes at a constriction in his body, almost like he was retching. He remembered his Sire, the Master. His skin had been hard too, and cold - or had that been himself that was cold? He wasn't sure. The memory was foggy, unlike the ones since he'd woken up. The others were just memories, since siring they were like video clips. Like being with Elliot, he could replay that moment over and over. He grinned, suddenly restless.

He leapt lightly and swung up neatly onto the balcony and, with another light jump he landed on the roof of the neighbours home, absorbing the impact into the balls of his feet without making a sound.

Twirling, he headed for the street where the two officers were watching the front door. He gave them a wide berth, skirting around through the shadows until he was behind their car, hiding in the vehicle's blind spot.

He examined them both. Each were in their late thirties, looking extremely bored wearing plain, nondescript clothing that could blend in easier. One was doing crosswords, while the other was staring directly at the house. George stood a little and his eyes swept over the plain, beige Chevrolet Cobalt. There was a littering of empty Styrofoam coffee cups, Chinese takeout boxes, a pizza box, and bottles of water.

He snorted. What a boring job. And they didn't even notice that for the last hour the two of them had been... busy. He grinned when he remembered that Elliot was a bit of a talker and the memory was like another bolt of electricity.

He blinked. Focus, George. You can go back and rape Elliot later.

He fought down a mad urge to laugh, but a hysteric giggle broke through. One of the officers started, slopping coffee.

Before he could be seen George spun and disappeared back down the street, a pale blur in the moonlight hiding behind its orange film.

The wind caressed his skin and urged him to come run within the confines of the inky black night. He had important things to do though. Namely the captain, Don Cragen. He'd have to learn about George and Elliot's secret - or one of them anyway.

With the ease of a predator George began to bound along the rooftops, sometimes skirting through alleys, other times leaping high into the air with practiced ease, whooping quietly to himself and feeling like Spiderman.

He knew around where Don lived - Manhattan, in an apartment building. He'd sold his home to move into something smaller for retirement. Of course Manhattan was huge but he could move quickly, and had the advantage of a very sensitive nose.

He found Don's favourite restaurant where he reportedly went almost every night. He wondered which were the right scent for a moment. His usual table was private, near the back - he'd joined George once for a meal there.

He broke in, shattering a simple lock with a twist of his hand. He knew the restaurant was dark, but the scene was light up in strange colors mixed with black and white to his sensitive eyes. He manoeuvred through the kitchen and around the bar and headed for the back where the booths were.

He stepped up to the table, sniffing the air. Scents - female - were mingled all through the restaurant. Only two were male at this table. One was Munch, he noted with delight, leaning into the booth. The other must be Don - ginger, seaweed, and oranges - and led out the restaurant. He left the way he came and jogged to the sidewalk, scanning.

George paced back and forth a few times, collecting some odd looks to the few who were out, cataloguing the scents and trying to take them apart - there were thousands to smell - until he caught Don's scent once more heading east, this much more fresh. He wondered if he looked like a crack addict with a runny nose. When a woman pulled out her phone, staring at him with a gaping mouth, he grinned again, flashing dangerous teeth. She turned, and he left too. No doubt she was calling the cops to report a short, insane Asian man planning on robbing _Nikki's Dive._ Fully Licensed, made a mean martini. High on the idea, and on the night air itself, a hysterical giggle broke through.

He jogged, keeping a slightly above normal pace that wouldn't be noticed by anyone in the area. The apartment building was ten stories tall and behind the large glass doors there was a bored looking, sleepy doorman.

He halted before the entrance, leaning over, and pretending to tie his shoe. His eyes raked the lobby. In a moment he discovered a buzzer panel not far from the huge, Hispanic man who was eyeing George suspiciously.

A quick scan down the list and George saw D. Cragen listed beside a fourth floor apartment.

_And Bingo was his Name-O!_

In the time it took the average person to tie up their shoe, he jogged on, circling towards the alleyway. He couldn't be positive about which side the odds or evens were on, but he had the feeling that the evens were on the north side, which was what he was looking for. _402. _There was a security fence at the end of the building, but no cameras that he could see - no matter anyway, they'd have a tough time seeing him if he didn't show up in anything but "special cameras" as Gabby put it.

The building backed onto a small play park with a pool that glowed dully in the florescent lights which lined the area. Chlorine bit his nostrils and he snorted a little in pain.

He looked up the back of the building, scanning. Now, which side did they start on? There was a staircase to each end of the building, and the elevator was in the exact middle, so that didn't give him any indication to where the 2's were.

He launched himself up, climbing up the balconies and stonework until he'd reached the fourth level. The first balcony he inspected didn't smell right, so he jumped to the next one over and sniffed again.

_Ah!_

He crouched in the shadows, looking through the glass at a living room. _Not a lot of personality_, George noted. A few pictures of an unidentified woman, probably his wife, and a few of his children. A few framed pictures of children's drawings. Nothing else suggested what kind of person might live there - the furniture was all nondescript, no art on the walls, few books or DVD's on shelves and impeccably clean.

George tested the door - unlocked. Odd for the captain, but then again, the fourth floor is an unlikely spot for a burglar.

He stepped - and slammed into a wall.

He stepped back. Hmm.

Right. No uninvited guests.

Plan B.

He walked over and peered through another window. He could see Cragen's bald head resting on the pillow and the rhythmic rise and fall of his blankets.

Shrugging, and hoping Don would come look before calling security or the police, George rapped on the bedroom window. Now that he thought about it, this would probably keep him from getting shot.

Don bolted up in bed, blinking owlishly in the poor light. After a moment he glanced at the window and George waved.

He ducked as Don went for his gun.

He waited on the balcony, lounging on the railing knowing there would be no issues with falling.

Don pushed the glass door open, pointing his gun.

"Who the hell - Huang?" George almost wanted to laugh at the difference in tones.

"Hi, Captain Cragen."

"How the devil did you get up here?" he snapped. "And - and where have you been? And what are you doing at my _house?"_

George smiled this time, hoping he looked reassuring instead of frightening. "The official story about where I've been is I ran away from the precinct a few days ago and Elliot followed me, and forgot his cell phone somewhere. He prevented me from throwing myself off of a bridge, because I couldn't handle the rape."

Don looked around like a man desperate for a hoax. "And the unofficial story?"

"This is where it get's... dicey. We should go inside, you're going to freeze-" George's eyes lingered a moment on the tattered housecoat and heart printed boxers, "- and I have a lot of explaining to do."

Don chewed the inside of his lip, deliberating. After a long moment he lowered his gun, tucking it into a pocket of the housecoat, and walked in the apartment. George followed to the threshold.

Don turned and looked at him. "What?"

"Well... part of the story involves the fact that I can't come in your house unless I'm invited."

"What, are you a vampire now?" Don asked, a smile playing on his lips.

George stared at him.

Don swallowed. Keeping a smile off of his face, George had fun listening to his heartbeat accelerate, feel the flares of heat off of his cheeks and bald head, and smell a hint of fear. Don apparently caught on quickly. "Umm... Ok... come in?"

George reached a hand forward - it passed over the threshold and he walked inside, closing the door softly behind him. Don was pouring himself a whiskey in the kitchen. He turned almost directly into George, who had followed.

"WOAH!" he slopped some whiskey. "Jesus, don't sneak up on a guy!"

"Sorry," said George. He walked back to the living room, deliberately making noise. He stood in the corner. "Aren't you an alcoholic?"

"I've been off the wagon for long enough that I can have a drink every few months," he replied. "Something tells me I'm going to need it tonight."

Don took a sip of whiskey. "Ok, now that you've scared me half to death by somehow appearing on my balcony at two in the morning, explain. Because you and Elliot are gonna get your asses dragged through the fire for this - the entire precinct, screw it, the entire NYPD are up in arms because a detective and someone under protective detail are missing. Not to mention that the FBI are screaming at us for not doing our job and are conducting their own search."

George fidgeted. Had they really not expected this? Well, no, not really - they'd been abducted.

"This is going to sound nuts," he warned.

Don Cragen stared at him. He'd heard nuts before.

"Well, OK. Your guess was right."

"What? You being a vampire?"

George smiled, but it felt strained.

Don burst out laughing. He trailed off after a long moment. He coughed. "You're serious. George, maybe you'd better see someone, this has been hard on you..."

George snarled. Don slopped more whiskey as he straightened up. He could feel his anger prickling at him. _Just instincts._

"Like my tiger impression?" George asked bitterly. "Seriously though, Don, how do you _think_ I got up to your fourth floor balcony?"

Don stared. The heart was going faster now, and the fear was evident in the air. His instincts liked that, the dark one in the back of his mind purred. Realization was creeping up into Don's eyes as they locked eyes. Elliot told him his eyes went bronze whenever he was feeling particularly... vampiric. He wondered if they were doing it now, reflecting the poor light from the bulb over the stove.

"Listen, the other day... I attacked Elliot. I bit him. I nearly killed him when a someone showed up and pumped me up full of a sedative and let me sleep it off. We've been in the Hamptons."

"Someone?" asked Don hoarsely.

"Yes. A slayer. Don't look so shocked - after all, Alex and Danni Beck were part of their little organization. Don, look," he said after a moment, as Don started shaking his head. He took off his shirt. "Where are the burns? The scratches? The bruises? You saw them, I know you saw the pictures." He paused. "It's only been five days."

Don swallowed hard. "George, please... vampire's?"

"I'll explain everything to you. But you have to put out those fires, Ok? You _have_ to accept my story when Elliot and I come to the precinct tomorrow morning. And above all _do not let on to anyone you know!"_

"Why?" asked Don. "Other than the fact that they'd throw me in a straightjacket."

"Because, from what I can tell about the slayers, if you know about the vampires it's compulsory to join up - and I don't think you want that. Now sit down, grab your whiskey, and I'll start from the beginning. I have to hurry because if Elliot wakes up and I'm not there..."

Don turned purple. George flinched at the heat radiating off of him, making the burn in his throat more pronounced. Fascinating, though, that the suggestion made him more nervous and surprised than the idea of his being a vampire.

"I mean, if I'm not... around."

Don drank the last of his glass. "Just get to the story, OK? Never mind some of the... details."

ttt

Frankly, George figured it could have gone worse. He left Don staring after him as he leapt off of the balcony, no doubt wishing it was all a very bad dream.

His muscles felt good stretching as he ran through the city. The smells of Manhattan weren't as bad as he was thinking - what he could remember from being human was the trash, the exhaust, and the asphalt in the hot sunlight. Now it was so much different, billions of scents rolled into one complicated web. He was giddy. If there was anything about this new life that he wasn't upset about, it was that.

He stopped on a rooftop that was covered with a mixture of warm tar and gravel. There was a few boxes of clutter, a forgotten barbecue and a threadbare couch amongst furnace stacks, an HVAC unit, and other forgotten things. He sniffed the air and on impulse kicked off his shoes and socks. The ground was very hot beneath his feet - pleasant like a nice foot bath. He sprang about the roof a moment, enjoying the squishy, springy tar. The rocks didn't scratch his feet - his skin was too durable for that.

He stepped up to the edge of the building and looked down into the alley. Dark as midnight though it would be to human eyes, it was coloured in the deepest sienna and greys to him. Trash, dumpsters, a derelict sleeping, swathed in dirty rags, clutching a paper wrapped bottle. _I thought that was only on TV and movies,_ he thought, his eyes roaming away to focus on the biggest rat he'd ever seen, which was chewing its way through some kind of dead animal. It was something that normally would have made him shudder, but now he saw it as predator and prey. It would be no different to the rat if George leapt down and made a meal of the wino sleeping off his drink. It would watch him, un-amused and unafraid, and set back on its stolen supper.

He looked to the other roof tops around him, cluttered and in disrepair. There was a shimmering haze as heat rippled off of the city. The hazy orange sky stretched like nylon over the stars and moon, which was grinning down at him.

He closed his eyes and felt his body. His hands touched the unaccustomed-to muscles for a moment and he dropped them to his sides and tilted his head up into the sky. He breathed deep, ignoring the scents and just tasting the air.

Kris had told him that it might be possible to track his Sire's whereabouts using his mind - that the two of them were linked by blood and that connection couldn't be broken by anything but death. As the more powerful, he knew that the Master could control it, block it, and effect him through it. It was possibly why he felt, occasionally, that he was owed blood and must take it. But George refused to take a human life - his will was stronger than the creeping, silent but demanding voices behind him in the shadows of his mind. It was why he was able to stop from killing Kris and Elliot, why he was able to keep from feeding for so long.

He felt into his own mind now, pushing past the tangled, shadowy urges from his other side, which growled and glared at him through invisible eyes as he brushed it aside. It, The Hungry Shadow sat meekly with The One Who He'd Been. George was aware the two had copulated at some point and he was the result of it. He couldn't ignore his predatory side, so he couldn't be The One Who He'd Been. And he couldn't be a savage, so he couldn't let The Hungry Shadow take the wheel. He just had to balance - Zen. He smiled as he felt his way through the instincts and thoughts to something that made him _him._ Something that was neither the old him, nor the Shadow. Something quiet and giggling, eager and concupiscent. Something waiting for him. He reached out and touched it.

At once his mind was alive, buzzing and purring and snarling all at once. There was a silent shout of laughter that couldn't be louder if it had been into his ear through a megaphone. The timbre of the voice was other-worldly - no human could sound like it, neither could a vampire with its human imitation vocal chords - he knew this. It was spiritual, as much as The One Who He'd Been hated the idea of anything _spiritual._ He'd been unable to reconcile with a God who'd forsake him if he didn't ignore his sexual urges, and his love. He was also unable to see eye to eye with a God who'd make a pedophile, shape his existence in order for it to seek out and devour innocent children and allow them to lose their souls and become monsters themselves.

He gritted his teeth against the voice and sent his own. There were no words, but there were emotions, anger, murderous rage, and he had to admit a small measure of curiosity at the thing on the other end of the connection, just as it held curiosity for him.

_Hello, Childe of Night. Enjoying the moon, your only sun?_

The voice was like an attack, full of knives. George tried to send words back, but he only managed the sarcasm, fear and anger behind them.

_No, see, you are too weak to speak with me through this. Do you Feel me?_

George noticed after a moment he did. Through his mindscape, through his mind's eye he could see over the rooftops in the shadow twisted and blurred night like a dark beacon arching away from him into the distance, away from Alphabet City to the North West. The Master's signal was pulsing, alive with energy.

There was a pain like someone had smashed a wedge through his skull with a sledgehammer, and he felt his thoughts fly on the beacon. _I do._

There was a shout of laughter. _You are strong! Your Will isn't to be rivalled by any save an ancient - I have never seen a Childe such as yourself with such great Will! I look forward to seeing your talent in several hundred years - I wonder what it will be?_

With another slash of pain George groaned, and sent another two words. _You won't._

Now there was something like an expectant hush. _No? And why is that, my Childe?_

_Because._

_Why, my love? Why? Do you plan to die?_

_No._

_Then why? _The sound was a purr, like a cat with a mouse, amused, expectant, with a feral undertone of one ready to kill.

The headache was too much, and he could send no more words. With a swelling of blind, sanguinary anger he sent his emotions through the link and spelt out the bloodshed. The feeling of power, and of death which he remembered from his first and only human kill, of a poor boy who'd done no harm to anyone by a newly born killer.

The laughter which returned made George sway blindly, but he coiled his muscles as if to defend from a physical blow.

_You try to control your urges but know this - my power isn't through feats of strength or telekinesis or some other superhero feat - it is through the mind, and no Will is more powerful, more developed and more in control of you than this very moment. You are divided in mind, from the Predator and Prey and have sought to become something unified through it, trying to balance yourself like scales. And it will work as long as I allow it, as long as you can keep them in check, keep them balanced and watched. But if something were to fall to one side or the other, you would tremble. Just imagine if your 'Hungry Shadow' had something weigh it down to its favour? What would happen?_

George twisted in his own mind, naked to the voice of the Master, unable to break the link and pull away. An agonized groan broke through his clenched teeth.

_You would kill and kill again, becoming nothing more than a ghoul. And the Order which you so blindly walk to, whose beat you dance to, will slaughter you like a shepherd to the wolf which stalks his sheep! You go to serve Kris Brown, who I see in your stupid, arrogant mind which has no idea the inkling of its own power and ability, who has shot you, poisoned you, and still you serve HIM! I would help you, one of your own kind, and yet you, a lion go to the ant with the largest mandibles and think he will HELP you? YOU ARE A FOOL AND I WILL SHOW YOU!_

George felt his conciousness and kicked for the surface. With a groan he stepped from the ledge and collapsed onto the tar, his powerful legs devoid of strength and energy, which had gone to a purely mental defence. He gasped - not that he needed the air, but it was what his mind demanded from him. The link was still there though, his mind was pulling towards the North West. Desire bloomed through his body - strong and sexual. He wasn't sure why, but he needed, _NEEDED _to be with his Sire, needed to have his arms around him. Needed the promise of raw, animalistic sex that the link was sending him.

_"No please no," _he felt himself croak out as sensations ran through his body like an erotic current. "Elliot," he said, closing his eyes against the images of the shadowy figure promising pleasure like he'd never felt before, and focusing on his face, the lines of care, his blue eyes, and the way his arms had felt locked around his own in a protective embrace.

Suddenly the link changed to fear, and he was cowed in the presence of an ancient evil, promising death and dismemberment - he saw Elliot wearing a collar, his arms pulled back, blood running in rivulets down his chest as sharp nails dragged their way across his skin. Sharp teeth were at his neck, a tongue lapped blood. And George was floating, unable to kill the psychopath who clutched at him. Rage tried to bloom up, but it was forced back with fear as everyone he cared about was sacrificed to the figure and in a moment of terror he saw himself behind Elliot, smiling.

The fear melted to something else now, something seductive and soft which sent saliva flowing into his mouth and seared his gums as his fangs slid out into their rightful, deadly place.

There was a noise below him - footsteps, coming higher and... two people broke out onto the rooftop, laughing, and as far as he could tell kissing, from the soft wet sounds. Their scents were instant and infectious as well as the intense heat from their bodies and the sound of wet, delicious blood underneath the thin membrane of their skin.

George, along with The One Who He'd Been, started screaming from their prison. The Hungry Shadow had forced him aside and was now gripping the steering wheel, cackling with glee. Although his thirst had been sated, The Hungry Shadow always wanted more.

George arched off the ground, his muscles stretching. His head twisted and he started to pant. Pleasure rippled through him, he knew he was still hard from the arousal that had been sent before, and he grabbed at himself, unable to resist. He turned to look.

"The fuck, yo?" some guy said, incredulous.

The girl started to laugh hysterically. "Ah, someone had wanted alone time with himself?" she laughed.

Two African American's were joined at the pelvis, arms around each other, pulling themselves close without actually having sex, but that was their intent. The woman's body was deep brown, covered in a sparkly sheen of sweat, dressed in high heels, denim hot pants and a yellow tank top hiked high and tied at the back. The guy was dressed in baggy pants and a Lakers jersey, his dreads hanging low down his back. Both of them were laughing, but slowly fear and doubt began to creep up into their faces.

George kept panting as he rolled to lay on his stomach, watching the minute twitches of their pulses in their necks where the heat burned the hottest. Their blood was so, _so sweet._

"Yo, yo I think this dude is hyped on crack, Myra," the man said, stepping forward to sheild his woman. _Like it would help._

"Let's just go before he pulls a knife or somethin'," she said. "Let's just go back to my place."

George groaned, panting harder, trying to resist the sweet singing of their blood.

"What's wrong with his _eyes?"_ the man whispered.

"Jesus, Marty, let's get the fuck outta here," said Myra desperately, pulling at his arm now, clearly full of fear.

George snarled, the sound ripped from him in a feral shriek. The two jumped. He arched off the ground like a cat and breath hissed through his teeth as he sampled the air. Which first? What to do? Snap the neck of one and feast on the other? But then the blood would get cool from the first victim and he wanted it to pump into his mouth like a fountain - perhaps he should simply paralyze one, break their spine and fill their mouth with rocks and hope they don't choke while he fed on one, then the other.

The voice in his head laughed as The Hungry Shadow crooned with delight.

And two other voices cried, one who was dead and a mere echo of himself, living only in the mind, and one who was fresh born and full of anger.

In a blinding movement he was on his feet, breath hissing through his teeth like a gas leak. He took a lurching step backwards as two different Huang's fought for control, a hand on each arm as the Master chuckled.

_Let this be a lesson to you,_ thought his Sire smugly.

George gained control of his lungs and held his breath and after a moment, tiny spasmodic growls in time with his shaking escaping his throat, he relaxed, focused his attention at his two, fear paralyzed victims.

So tempting.

_Elliot._

He took a few steps back. _"GOD HOW I WANT TO KILL YOU!" _he shrieked, to both the victims and to his Sire. An agonized scream ripped from his throat, which burned, parched as a desert and required sating.

And after another moment, fighting back the lure of their scent and their heat and their fearful breaths George turned and fled towards Queens, closing his mind to a dull black as he beat across the rooftops towards a waiting bed.


	9. Watched

Chapter Nine - Watched

Elliot and George were yelled at by no less than fifteen different people the next morning, all of varying degrees of rank and power within the NYPD and within the FBI. Their story held, but everyone was mostly screaming at Elliot because he was irresponsible, didn't call in, and so on and so forth.

Elliot, abashed and red in the face, fresh from getting threatened with losing his badge by some head honcho or another (they were starting to blur together) clutched a coffee cup and was ignoring the looks of pity from Olivia, who'd returned the day before. George was getting a psyche evaluation that he would pass with flying colors, and he'd be prescribed happy pills that he wouldn't take - and Elliot whole heartedly felt like he was getting the worse of the deal.

At the moment Captain Cragen along with several other higher ups, including the Deputy Chief of Police, were arguing in his office. Elliot, around sips of coffee, was wincing with every pitched tone from the office. He looked at his badge, his lovely badge, lying on the table in front of him. _Ugh._ It was going to be bad, whatever it was. Suspended? Fired? Fired, no pension?

Olivia coughed a very timid, small cough. Elliot rolled his eyes up to look at her, feeling his hand twitch on the table next to the cup, the other supporting his forehead.

"Why didn't you call in?" she asked, a hot blush on her cheeks.

Elliot sighed and put both his hands on the table, wrapping them around the paper cup again. Olivia looked innocent and wide eyed. Her hair was still a dark red, almost black, like when they first started working together. The righteous rookie cop, the stone cold fox who'd stop at nothing to get the right guy. They'd been through a lot together. She'd been there through every bad case, supporting him loyally through IA investigations and was there in the middle of the night with a few pulled pork sandwiches and a six pack of beer when Kathy had left him. Nothing would have made him happier to tell her about his issues now, but he was sworn to secrecy, and knew she probably wouldn't make light of his and George's sleeping together, although he'd bet that once the shock wore off she'd be his most loyal supporter.

"I bet you'd have made a cute little goth," said Elliot, trying to change the subject. "Though at your age it's a little odd."

"Not really, there were plenty of people like me in the clubs," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "Anyway, why didn't you?"

Elliot sighed. He knew she wouldn't have stayed off the track for long. "Long story. I was more concerned trying to keep George from himself." _Which isn't a lie,_ he thought with a measure of bitterness.

"What happened?"

He was tired of explaining, but at least he had his story perfected. "George disappeared from work. I searched around and got lucky, catching him disappearing in a taxi up the street. I did the whole "follow that cab" thing, which apparently happens more often than not, all the way out to Long Island. I have a buddy out there who lent me a car when I figured out where George was headed. I kept him from diving off a bridge, and let him calm down a bit at my buddy's place before coming back. Calling in completely slipped my mind." Elliot sighed. _Who was it who said, a truthful person will always have a variance in their story, but a liar's story never changes?_

"That must have been a lot in cab fee's."

"Raped my salary for a month," he muttered. Not a lie - Kris _had_ made him get a cab home.

"How's George?"

"A lot better. Once I got him calmed down he realized what he was doing and relaxed. Fixed himself, really."

Olivia smiled sympathetically. She stood up and looked about the station. There was always something going on, but there was a brief lull in the action in the squad room. Fin's head nodded to a beat on his headphones and Munch's eyes flickered up to her, then away. Elliot wondered if that had been a hint of warmth in his cheeks. He looked at her and she was smiling in a shy, stupid way like a school girl with a crush, looking at Munch. Her eyes danced away and Elliot swallowed hard.

_Munch and Liv..? No way!_

"I'm in the fuckin' Twilight Zone," he said, then chuckled. _I suppose it's not a _huge_ shock._

He finished his coffee and threw it in the garbage. The growling voices in Don's office hit a lull, and the door opened. The back of his neck prickling, combined with a fight or flight instinct, made him want to run for the hills. _My asshole's big enough now, thank you very much sirs, please leave it alone!_

Don cleared his throat, looking at him. Elliot sighed. _Aaaaand in this corner wearing red, the tag-teaming, ass-raping captains! Aaaaand in this corner wearing the bulls-eye, Ellioooooot Stablerrrrr!_

Feeling like a chump he stood up and walked over, shoving his badge in his pocket. He had a feeling he was about to part ways with his shield momentarily, and it hurt like hell. He looked around the office, wondering if this was it.

He stood before Cragen and the two wearing their clean, pressed, startched-within-an-inch-of-their-lives blues, who were looking at him imperiously. He swallowed. He was the tallest in the group, but at the moment he felt sure he couldn't be higher than the souls of their shoes.

"Detective," said Cragen, "I want your badge, your ID card, and your gun."

Elliot sighed, nodding, his face redder than he'd ever felt it go, and handed them to Cragen.

The Deputy Chief Inspector glared from behind steel-rimmed glasses. "You are suspended without pay. This set of circumstances is not going to be investigated by IAB, but you'll be off the job for two weeks to think about this."

_Better than I'd hoped for._

"I want to talk to you in my office," said Cragen, "and then you can go. As for everyone else, Detective Kris Brown will be taking his place on the squad temporarily, on loan from a branch in Long Island, by order of the Deputy Chief Inspector."

Elliot felt his jaw drop as Kris Brown walked into the room in a clean, expensive suit. Kris didn't so much as look at him as he surveyed the surroundings, then strolled up to them. He smiled briefly at the Inspector, and turned to Cragen. "Thank you sir, I'll try to fill the important role Detective Stabler has here."

_Sonofabitch!_

"You two, in here please," said Don.

Elliot, fuming, walked in behind Kris, glaring at the back of his well groomed head.

"Now, Elliot you know him right?"

Elliot grunted. Kris shook silently with laughter.

"I've been informed of your true... situation..." said Cragen.

Elliot's head snapped up. "Say what?"

"Huang informed me of the situation. So did Kris here."

Elliot felt left in the dark. "What?"

Cragen and Kris both stared at him. "Didn't you know...? Your dearly departed boyfriend," Kris ignored Cragen while he choked, "was out and about last night, warning Cragen and having a fight with his sire."

"All I remember is George came back in a bad state, and didn't say anything to me. He called _you_ though?" It was hard to hide the jealousy.

Kris shrugged. "It was important. I'll say no more here. The reason I'm here is to go through all your files regarding the, what are they calling him now?"

_"The Manhattan Stalker,"_ said Cragen. "And I'll remind you not to use any... words that might compromise my need-to-know situation. I don't want to hear about the... V-Word."

Elliot chuckled. Kris rolled his eyes. He turned his glare on Elliot. "And talk to your partner. Your rage and shock at seeing me was such that I can tell she's already shut up tight, and won't dish anything I'll need to know about. She's _hot_ though, how can you work with her and not be distracted."

It was Elliot's turn to glare. "She's spoken for by someone else, so if you like both your hands, keep it professional."

Kris grinned. "Aw, just like a protective dad."

They left the office, Cragen visibly shaken, and the two of them attempting at some form of camaraderie. The inspectors whisked back into the office to have a parting word with Cragen. Olivia's stare flickered back and forth between the two of them. With good grace, Kris veered to the coffee pot and to Fin, who was hunting up creamer. Elliot picked up his bag.

"What the hell was that?" Olivia hissed, her gaze still flickering back and forth.

"A jerk I knew from way back when. We've settled our differences. He's just here to help, Liv, don't stonewall him." From the set of her jaw he knew he was right. "He doesn't squeak and he isn't after cheese - he's here about _The Manhattan Stalker,_ and that's it."

"FBI?"

"No idea. I think he works with a group that focus on serial killers like this or something. I don't care. Gotta go, Liv. Don't shut him out. He's an asshole, but he's a well meaning asshole."

Olivia grinned.

TTTT

George passed his test. After all, his current mindset was suicide-free. He was still shaky from last night's encounter and wanted to trance for awhile and relax, but he didn't have the option at the moment. He took the prescription for Celexa with every intention of throwing the pills into a toxic roundup at the first chance he got. And he was on forced leave with pay and therapy until his therapist made sure he was past any "Post Traumatic Stress" stage that he'd never reach.

He walked through the office, smiling at the sympathetic people who said hello. Everyone seemed to have a kind word, but he noticed that people he'd been close to, like Laura Brooks, an agent like himself, didn't want to come near him the way they once would have. He and Laura had been close - even on a hugging basis, but now she smiled absently, as if they were kids at school and she was afraid to take that first step to being friends. Something had shifted - he was repellent. It was like their human instincts screamed about him - that he was dangerous. He knew their instincts weren't so keen as an animals, but even they knew there was something wrong. There was no abrupt change, but it was subtle... they were wary of him, of his pale skin and perceptive eyes. Not that he blamed them. He moved differently, he felt differently... he wasn't one of them anymore. It left him with a feeling of loss.

He paused by his office door, staring at the placard which said his name. _Agent George L. Huang, PhD._ He ran his fingers over the metal, feeling the grooves, and opened his door and stepped inside.

It was instant - his nostril's flared and eyes widened. He felt the instinctive reaction, his fangs sliding out of his gums, his muscles bunching. A scent screamed at him, a scent he'd never encountered before but he was aware of in some deep, dark part of his mind, back far into his new instincts.

_Vampire!_

He stepped inside and shut the door, his breath shaking as he tasted his surroundings. The scent was smooth and clean, it wasn't food and it wasn't an inanimate object. He thought back to his muddy human memories - it was like the smell of one human to another. He analyzed it - sort of floral, really, with silk.

There was no strong point - it had permeated the room. _After hours?_ Perhaps that was how he'd known George had been on his case. Perhaps the vampire - the very one who'd sired him - had come through here routing out who was after him and had made him a target.

_But then he'd know about everyone! Olivia, Don, Munch, Fin... Elliot!_

He started through his files, trying to see if anything was missing. His computer was untouched - a layer of dust sat upon its keys, but the filing cabinet - that had been used. Like bright, white lights he could see where it had been touched, where the scent was strongest. He started to thumb through the files.

"Hello in there?" asked a voice from the door.

George bolted upright, the muscles tensing in his back. He'd been snuck up on.

_Impossible._

He spun around. Half in the door was Alain Rictor, tilting his head to the side and looking confused. "Everything alright, George?"

George swallowed, sniffing the air. His scent was strange, but human. Something like freesia, green grass, and something else he couldn't identify. It was repellent though, like Kris, without the mothballs and acid. _Kris said that some people smell less appealing than others,_ thought George, shutting his filing cabinet. Almost as if human evolution had supplied certain members of the race with a flimsy protection. Not that his scent wouldn't appeal to him if he were starving, but it didn't set his throat burning wildly like everyone elses. Kris's scent though was manufactured - all Order operatives had a chemical injected into them which caused a minor deterioration of cells, rendering him innutritious as well as giving him a disgusting, inanimate smell that causes sneezing in close proximity, tipping them off when a vampire is present.

_He must have sneaked up on me because I'm so focused on my little intruder. _Alain's smell began to mix with the vampire's, diluting it.

He turned towards Alain again. "Hello Alain, what can I do for you?"

"Can I not offer my condolences on your situation?" asked Alain, stepping in, looking concerned now. He twirled a stir stick in a cup of coffee.

"Thank-you," said George. His perceptive had changed - it was hard to get worked up and angry at him, when Alain was just a human with a strange personality quirk.

Alain leaned against the wall, still looking concerned. "You look pale."

"Not enough sun, and I haven't been eating well," said George.

"You should get all the nutrition you need, you know," said Alain. He smoothed his blonde hair. "A good feed will brighten you up."

If George's heart could beat, it would have skipped. He stared at Alain. "A... feed?"

Alain nodded, looking confused again. "Sorry. It's my Southern flair again - I'm from Kentucky, remember?"

George shook his head. "Sorry, no."

"No matter. It's what my mother called it. I try not to talk like that - it seems unprofessional in some circles."

_I am getting paranoid. _"No worries."

"Seriously though, you need something." Alain twirled the stick again, and took a slow sip. "Thirsty?"

George blinked.

"Frank brought Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee," he said, sipping again. "It's the best I've ever had."

_I am very, very paranoid._

"No, I should get going," George sighed. "I've a lot of work to do."

"Don't overwork yourself. Your mind is important, George. Get your rest and everything else you need - you're no good to anyone if you run yourself down. Don't need you snapping and killing anyone," he winked.

"Thank you, Alain." And he meant it. _Really, he's being friendly today. I suppose I would be too, if I was under the impression he'd been tortured, raped, and then tried to throw himself off of a bridge._ He went for the door.

"By the way," said Alain, looking a little embarrassed, but curious at the same time. "Are you... part of the gay community?"

_Where did that come from?_ George paused, looking over at him, confused. "Um..."

"Sorry. I am, and my instincts always go off around you on that sort of thing."

"Are you trying to pick me up?"

"No. I was just curious though about you and that Detective Stabler."

George would have blushed if he could. "Sorry... none of your business though."

Alain shrugged. "He's very attractive. I love strong men. Someone who can make me feel small," he joked. "If he was gay you'd have competition from me."

_No I wouldn't,_ George thought. He laughed. "Well, I'm not sure his type. I'll ask him, maybe give him your number."

"Lovely," Alain beamed.

_Not so bad after all,_ he thought.

TTTT

George was waiting on the couch when Elliot came back to the condo. He'd tranced for about an hour, letting his body and mind relax and reflect. He pondered the scent, wishing that the first snapped pictures of his new life had an olfactory imprint on them. They were so quick and flashed he couldn't remember much other than the ecstasy of his first kill. The thought made that retching feeling again and disgust rolled within him. All he could remember was pleasure, the light, and the _pain_ of the first gasp of air in his new body. Then the feeding. He shook his head.

Elliot stepped into the doorway, dropping his bag with its uneaten lunch on the ground. George stayed silent on the couch, watching him as he took off his jacket and slid it onto a hanger and loosened his tie. He kicked off his shoes and stretched, his back cracking loudly.

"So... how was the last of it?" George asked, picking up the remote control and spinning it in his fingers.

Elliot jumped. George noticed the increase in his heartbeat with a small, sly smile.

"Um... well, I was reamed by a whole bunch more people when you left, then they tag-teamed me. Then they gave me a two week suspension without pay. At least there won't be an IAB investigation. Guess who took over my spot on the squad?"

"Kris," said George, shrugging. "He's friends with the Deputy Chief Inspector. As well as being fond of several of his mother's movies, he's also a member of the Order, and wouldn't have anyone else fill the role, since Kris was already acting on our case."

Elliot turned, looking furious. "So the guy that I was blabberin' our weak, pathetic story to already knew where I was an' why I couldn't do anythin' about it!"

_Uh oh. Accent. Tread softly, my friend..._

"We talked one on one an' he never once let on that he knew! I can understand around th' other guy, but when he was talkin' to me an' I was lyin' out my ass?"

George rolled his eyes. Elliot's anger wasn't going to stop anytime soon. He curled his fingers, imagining them like cat's claws, scraping across the cushion. He glanced around, trying to think of a way to stop this train of thought in its tracks.

_"Are you even listenin' to me?"_

George sighed and stood up. He eyed the detective a moment and smirked. In a too-fast movement he ran around the room so he was behind him. Elliot whirled looking cautious. George grinned wickedly.

"What are you up to?"

George grabbed Elliot's face, marvelling at the warmth and the heartbeat which was approaching the same sound and speed of a race horse running down the track. He lifted up onto his tip toes and kissed him, moaning a little at Elliot's soft lips.

"George, Geo-mmph. Umph-mph...mmm..."

George's hands danced lower, grasping the front of his shirt. Silky smooth rayon. He smiled into the kiss as his hands curled into the shirt. _Riiiip._

"Hey!" Elliot yelled as buttons flew and George tossed away two handfuls of soft, burgandy fabric.

"I owe you a new shirt," he shrugged, grabbing his face again.

"But I liked the shirt!"

"Forget the shirt, Elliot."

They hit the couch, Elliot on the bottom as George crawled over top of him. Elliot gasped as George's cool lips skimmed over his chest and to his stomach, teasing his bellybutton.

"Spare the pants?" Elliot asked as George began to kneed the fabric. George shrugged and in a moment he had his belt undone and was yanking the offending clothing out of the way.

_Riiip!_

"Hey!"

"You've got plenty of briefs."

"George, you can't just mangle my wardrobe whenever you - oh. Ohhh..."

Elliot arched off the couch, the question of his destroyed clothing forgotten at the feeling of George's cool mouth and seeking hands.


	10. A Faded Lead

Well, here it is. Took a bit of tweaking to do it. Sorry, no lemon (not yet, anyways). I originally had planned a much more "fannish" chapter, with a bit of squee and humour, but I couldn't get it to flow right. I'll do my best with another chapter, but George's head isn't really a happy place, and it's hard to go through with it when I know he wouldn't be interested. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter Ten - A Faded Lead

"Jesus, George," said Elliot, stroking George's forehead. "You really know how to calm a guy down."

George's quiet snickers made the couch vibrate. The two were wrapped up in each other's arms, exhausted. Elliot had never had such a physically demanding relationship. George had no recovery time, and expected the same of Elliot. A few hours later Elliot was nursing a few bruises that lined up perfectly with George's fingers. Battered and tired, Elliot relaxed in that warm, snuggly afterglow that only good sex can give you. He sighed, smelling his hair.

"You smell so good," he murmured, burying his face into George's mussed up hair.

George chuckled again, wrapping his arms around him a little harder. His skin was deceptively warm on his stomach where he was pressed into him, but his back was still cold. He stroked his neck, letting his mind wander. Where was their relationship going? Sure, this would be great for a few years. But he was 40. Whenever he imagined their relationship it was with the two of them growing older together. Now George was permanently set at 44 years old and soon he'd pass him by, and grow old, with George stuck the way he was in an ageless body.

He sighed. Not exactly a good place for his mind to go when they were lying together like they were. But it made him wonder. He shifted so he could look down at George, who was staring across the room, lost in thought. He was going to get older. Would George get bored of him? Would he stop loving him, become disgusted with him and leave?

He shook his head violently. George looked up at him, a small smile playing on his lips. He tilted his head to the side with a question dancing behind his eyes.

"You don't want to know."

George frowned a little, then reached up and stroked his cheek.

"No. Later."

"OK," he said, and snuggled back down.

Elliot frowned. "Actually, what happened last night? What were you able to tell _Kris,_ but not me?"

George sighed. "I didn't want to alarm you last night or this morning. You were so strung out I just thought it would be better to... wait."

"But you can tell Kris." It was hard to keep the jealousy and disgust out of his voice. He hadn't been sure if he liked Kris or not, but now he knew. He hated his guts.

George laughed. "You're so cute when you're mad." He sat up and smiled at him, the warmth shining in his brown eyes. Elliot stared him down, or tried to - but he had the feeling that George didn't need to blink, and he was forced to do it first.

George's smile faded and he looked down. His lips moved, but no sound came. Elliot figured George was speaking too softly for him to hear.

"Cut it out, George, spill it. You told Cragen, and something happened. You... fought with your Sire."

George nodded, a low hiss escaping through his teeth. "Yes, I tracked Cragen down and told him what happened. Then I tried to sense my Sire telepathically, like Kris told me. And... I was barely strong enough to get away."

"What do you mean?" Elliot asked, reaching out and touching his arm. He curled his fingers around the solid muscle and started to draw him over.

George let himself be pulled and settled into Elliot's lap, curling into his body. "He... spoke to me. Put images in my head. I couldn't talk to him, at least not more than a word or two. But he could speak. And he could... influence me."

"Influence how?"

"Feelings. Desires, fear... hunger."

Elliot felt his mouth go dry. "Did you kill anyone?"

"No. But it was close. Had I been weaker by one, tiny iota... Elliot, it was so close that something smaller than a grain of sand could have tipped the scales. I _wanted_ them."

Elliot drew in a ragged breath when he realized he'd been holding it. He was scared - no denying it. Scared of the man in his arms, scared of what could happen, what would happen, if George was pushed. _And here I am, clinging to him like a rock_.

George looked up at him, sorrow etched across his features. Elliot berated himself. George was in agony, and here he was fearing for himself. Something inside him broke then, and he realized that he was in love with George, not the kind which people declare for soft feelings and sex, forgetting that they were in love the next month when they'd broken up and moved on. _Or when after twenty-two years of marriage your wife walks out and you move on, _he thought bitterly. No, this was love that he would die for, like for his children.

He put his hand under George's jaw and turned his face and crushed his lips into his. It didn't matter then what happened in the future, where George would go. Elliot was changed, and he wasn't sure if he could change back. Something, this new creature in his arms, held some sort of magic. The pull was harder, stronger, and he didn't think he could get away from it even if he tried. He'd follow him, if he could.

_"I love you,"_ he whispered between kisses.

George's arms went around his neck and the kiss got deeper, the sweet taste of his saliva, the feel of his body, sent Elliot's head reeling. He felt heat blooming over his body.

"I love you too, Elliot," murmured George. "It seems you've cast a spell on me. I'm yours."

Elliot smiled. "I think it's you that cast a spell."

George stiffened. "Uh oh."

"What?" Elliot asked, frowning.

George was out of his arms in a whoosh, throwing clothes at him. "Get dressed."

_"What?"_ he said, starting to pull his pants on.

George finished buttoning up his shirt when someone knocked on the door. Elliot hiked up his pants, glanced at the clock, and finished putting them on. He opened the door. "Lo?"

Kris walked in without waiting for an invitation. He paused a moment in the foyer, looking at Elliot's bruises. He turned and stared at George with a mixture of disgust and acceptance. "I always thought it was disgusting when vamp's diddled their food source. You don't see _me_ having sex with a cow," he said.

Elliot didn't say anything, which George found odd. After a moment he realized it was supposed to be a quiet, mumbled aside, and ignored it.

"What're you doin' here," Elliot snapped.

_Ah, back to the accent._

"I have a lead," said Kris, turning back to him.

George held back from leaping at him. "You do? _Who?"_

"Easy, now. It's a lead, not a suspect. I noticed that they found two sets of fingerprints, other than yours in that apartment - Gregory Wilkes the doorman, and another not in IAFIS. Now, they've been on a crusade for the other set, believing it to be the perp, but... I don't think so."

George frowned. "Right. They also found different blood from mine, a few drops. They also figure that it belongs to the perp."

"I don't. Gregory Wilkes went down as an accomplice, right? Well, he was unable to be interviewed, in fact he's unable to do anything without care now, and he resides in Bellevue Psyche."

Elliot scratched his head. "How is this good?"

"When a strong ancient uses his ability to mesmerise someone, they can bend them to their will. This is what I think our vampire's power is. And when they break, they can never heal. They will only take commands from their master, and will never live for themselves again. Gregory Wilkes is broken. Only his master can bring him out of his stupor."

Elliot glanced between the two of them. "Again... how is this good?"

"George has some of his Sire's blood in him - it's why they have the bond that they do. It's possible that George's voice will compel him to respond, if only for a few questions."

Realization broke out on Elliot's face. "Enough for a description. Damn. I'll get dressed."

Elliot bolted up the stairs.

George looked back at Kris. "You know, Elliot's going to ask later about the drops of blood you mentioned, and the fingerprints. What are you going to tell him? It'll hurt him to know the truth about what happened to the boy."

"Does it hurt you?" asked Kris, his blue eyes turned into X-rays as the bored into George's.

"Yes. You have no idea," said George, biting his lip. "But I can hide my feelings well. Elliot..."

"He'll ask me how siring works sooner or later," said Kris. "It will be a topic he'll be keen on."

George frowned. "Why?"

"He loves you, you love him, you want a happy life together, and he's going to die in another forty years or so. Do the math, George."

George's face contorted. He snarled, bristling, feeling his muscles tense. He knew he'd changed from mild-mannered Huang, to the new thing that he was, with the Hungry Shadow behind his eyes. "NO!"

Kris shrugged, his face unsympathetic. "Sorry, George. But it's true."

Growl still rumbling continuously in his chest, Elliot came down to see the two of them locked in a stare. "What?" he asked, his eyes flickering back and forth.

"Nothing," said Kris, turning for the door.

George relaxed, there was a wave of emotion like agony over his features, and his face became masklike once more.

TTTTTT

Getting into Bellevue to find Gregory Wilkes was easy - George was well known, a quick flash of a badge alongside to flashed NYPD shields and the three of them were winding their way through Bellevue Psyche. They were led to a ward that housed people who were catatonic. A quick talk with the attendant let them know that Wilkes was in a private room at the moment.

"He's being transferred at the request of his family in a few days, but he's available right now. It won't do much good, he won't speak or eat or do _anything_ really. Sometimes his hands turn blue because he won't breathe. He's turned himself into a vegetable. But it's not that his mind is destroyed - he has brain activity. He's just... given up. There is little we can do."

George smiled pleasantly at her. The yellow lights gave his once-dark skin an odd cast, and the woman retreated a step in response. She smiled nervously, showed them the door, and left as fast as decorum would allow.

Gregory Wilkes lay on a bed in a crisp, white hospital gown. He'd gained weight in the week, had put on almost twenty pounds by George's reckoning. His arms were flaccid by his sides, his feet and legs were covered in a thin cotton blanket. He gave no notice anyone had even entered the room, he just lay there. The only testament to his living was the low pulse of blood beyond the thin membrane of wrinkled skin, and his slow breathing.

George sniffed the room. No vampire had come or gone. He stepped up to Wilkes and looked down at his passive face. It wasn't restful. If anything it was just slack and forgotten - he couldn't be bothered to do anything but close his eyes and let his jaw hang open. His tongue had acquired a swollen, fuzzy look and spittle ran out the side of his mouth.

"Can't even be bothered to wet his mouth," said Elliot.

George picked up a pitcher of water. He poured a little of the stale water into a cup and tilted Wilkes's head up. Wilkes did not open his eyes or give any signal he'd been touched or moved. He wet his tongue, forcing his jaw shut with one finger. Wilkes's coughed involuntarily when the water tickled his throat, and swallowed. George fed him a little more water and lay his head back down. His tongue was returning to normal, so he stood back.

Kris stepped up and looked down at him. "Hmm. Talk to him George," he said. "He might respond to you because of the link."

Feeling very silly George bit his lip, deciding on what to say. "Gregory Wilkes."

There was a long pause. Then Wilkes's eyes opened and his mouth shut. He smacked for a moment and sat up slowly. His eyes were glazed and unfocused. "Yes Master?"

There was a prickling in George's mind. The link. He felt the eyes of his Sire on him, curious, amused. He offered no tendrils of feeling, however, and George was able to ignore him.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked.

Gregory blinked. "Child of the Master," he replied. "What do you need of me?"

"What does the Master look like? My Sire?"

Wilkes blinked again a few times. He smacked again, licking his lips with a dry tongue. George offered him water again and he stared at it, not sure what to do with it. "Drink," George ordered.

Wilkes drank. He set the cup aside and sighed. "The Master is very beautiful. He has white skin and golden, burning eyes. His hair is golden, too. He is as tall as the one behind you with the cold eyes, and slim like him as well. He is very strong, with a wonderful voice."

"Any other features?" George asked, trying to be gentle with him.

Wilkes gazed off. "He is very beautiful. A straight nose and pointed chin. His hair is wavy, and not long."

George frowned. It didn't really remind him of anyone off-hand. "Did he say a name?"

"The Master."

"Of course." He turned to face the other two. "Anything else?" he mouthed.

Both of them shook their heads. George turned back to Wilkes and offered him the water again. Wilkes drank it obediently.

George looked at him, remembering all the good times and friendly smiles from him. How much of a good man he was, and how much of that was lost somewhere in his mind, unable to be released. The thought made anger roil within him. His Sire chuckled in the back of his mind and the link was broken after a second.

"Gregory," said George, "I want you to live. I want you to eat and drink and support yourself. As close to the way you used to be. Do you remember?"

"Yes," said Wilkes, his pale eyes unfocused again.

"I want you to get better. I want you to do things without having to be told - just like everyone else in the world. To live. Do you understand?"

Wilkes shuffled, his eyes focused slightly. "You wish for me to be like I was before I met the Master?"

George nodded. "Yes."

"I... can't."

"Can you pretend?"

Wilkes was reaching the end of his ability to speak with him. He started to rock back and forth, groaning. George felt the link starting to weaken, like a chain it had begun to get fatigued. He could feel it warping in the middle, stretching.

"Gregory Wilkes, can you pretend?"

Wilkes swallowed hard, his body jerked back and the links began to stretch.

"Nnnnnn..."

George stepped back, frowning. "Gregory?"

After a moment the shaking subsided. "Yes Master, I can pretend."

"Good. You're released from me," said George.

After a long moment Wilkes relaxed and his eyes regained a small amount of their focus. He did not acknowledge anyone in the room. He got up, shuffled for a moment, and went to the washroom. It wasn't returning to himself, but at least he wouldn't need a feeding tube.

"Let's go," he said.

They informed the nurse, and the recovery was nothing short of a 'miracle.' They left as a doctor and several nurses appeared.

Twilight was setting over the city. The sun disappeared behind sky scrapers, pooling inky blue shadows among the streets. Streaks of orange and gold broke through the gaps in buildings, lighting up windows and windshields, gleaming off of dusty hoods and lamp posts, and crowned with a deep, hazy blue sky. George was dazzled for a moment on the colors, so much more vibrant in this body.

Kris nudged him and he nodded absently, letting himself be led towards the car.

He sat in the back, letting Elliot take shotgun. The tinted windows gave the world behind them a sepia look.


	11. Sombre Amour

A/N: It's been awhile! I took a hiatus from the 'net, coupled with a bit of writers block. I've finished my notes for the story, so hopefully everything will go smoothly. Also, readers beware at the end of the chapter there's lemon - the kind that isn't meant for under 18 persons (even if it's poorly written :P). If fic writers/shippers are anything like I was when I was a minor you won't let that stop you, but here's the warning anyway. If you don't want to read about sex, skip the end when it starts to heat up and pretend everything is kitties and bunnies. You've been warned.

Another quick note, the chapter name is French for "Dark Love" or, in the more correct context, "Dark/Tragic Love."

TTTTT

Chapter Eleven - _Sombre Amour_

It was dark when they reached Elliot's home. George slipped out of the car noiselessly. Elliot stepped out after him.

"George?"

George turned towards him. There was a moment, his face his emotionless. The next everything seemed to change. His eyes blazed bronze, shining like metal caught in the sunlight. He bit his lip, then shook his head.

"I've got to go," he murmured, turning.

"George!"

He disappeared into the night.

Elliot stood on the boulevard, looking after the white streak which had disappeared amongst the houses with no other sign of passing. Kris walked around the car and paused next to him on the grass, holding a large paper bag. He shook his head, adjusted the bundle in his arms, and walked up to the house to wait on the step.

After a long moment, Elliot followed.

TTTT

_Jesus, what's wrong with me?_ George cried in his mind as his feet flew across the ground. He turned down an alley and swung like an acrobat up, up to the roof where he crouched amongst a few furnace stacks that hummed quietly. Condo buildings, like Elliot's.

He wanted to cry but could feel nothing than the squeezing in his heart, like a hand was trying to crush him. He folded his arms over his chest and hung his head.

Too much. He could feel the link tickling in the back of his mind and knew that his thirst was rising, and he'd have to feed tomorrow night at the latest. It was very stupid to be alone. His Sire could make him kill the first thing that moved.

He was in pain. Elliot's caring, concerned face. Elliot, who would die one day. _I am a monster. I am a sick, disgusting, leech. That's all I am. And one day he's going to want me to kill him. He'll want me to drain him to the last drop._

He bared his teeth.

_I can't age. I can't get older. And I can't enjoy the things humans do either. No kids, no simple interaction with anyone other than Elliot or a freaking vampire slayer. I am a freak of nature._

_And what's the point of getting all worked up over it?_

He sat back and leaned against the stack. It wasn't that he needed it - the crouch on the ground was just as relaxing as this. It wouldn't hurt him to not move for days or weeks. It wasn't like he needed rest for anything but his mind anymore.

He shifted until he was lying on his back. His eyes pierced through the smog and lights to the billions of stars overhead, shining down at him. He'd never seen so many stars before. Almost imperceptibly they crept across the sky, twinkling and winking. Here one was blue, and one was red, and one was yellow. His eyes found Mars, large and crimson. With a shift he could see the big dipper on the edge of the horizon.

The stars would be the same, or mostly the same until long after he or Elliot were alive - immortal or no. After all, what could possibly be the point of living if everyone you ever loved had gone before you? He played with a few pieces of gravel. With a twist of his fingers it turned to sand. Still... he didn't want to die. Not yet anyway. _Maybe I'll get bored and shoot myself in the head with a silver bullet._

He sighed. A tickling of thirst along his throat. It was time to go back to Elliot, but he couldn't find the desire just yet.

TTT

Elliot didn't turn on the light when they got into the house. The rooms were dark, yellow light cast through the drapes in the living room over the rug. Elliot noted a bundle of black scraps of fabric - results. He didn't feel amused enough to smile at the memory as he pushed off his shoes and hung up his jacket. He loosed his tie until it hung limply around his neck, and eased a few buttons open. He heard Kris doing the same, the paper bag he carried crinkling in his arms. Scents of curry and garlic started to permeate the air. Normally Elliot preferred Chinese or something tasty from Little Italy, but Kris insisted that Indian food was the way to go so he decided to give it a try.

Kris stepped behind him. Elliot snapped a single halogen light above the stove, giving the small kitchen and dining room a white cast. It was modern and clean - the stone backsplash revealed sparkling deposits, the white tile gleamed, and long shadows stretched behind counters and chairs. His cat, the aptly named Schmoo (or schmooshy face, depending on who was talking to him), blinked his wide eyes at the two of them from his spot on a small ornamental stand with a well-chewed fern.

"That is one fat, fluffy cat," said Kris, setting down the bag and pulling out Styrofoam containers and plastic forks.

"Mwoaow," said the Persian in protest, and began to groom his paw.

Elliot smiled. "He's perfect," he said, getting plates from the cupboard. He set them down at the table and sniffed at the contents of one container, which were an orangey-red with meat that might be chicken sitting in it. Kris doled out some naan bread and rice while Elliot tipped some of it onto his plate.

They ate in silence, forks clinking and scraping in the darkness.

Kris swallowed and cleared his throat. "Anything on your mind?"

Elliot shrugged, then paused, a forkful of butter chicken and rice halfway to his mouth. He set the fork down and looked at Kris. The contrast between humanity and George was getting painful. Still, in the white like Kris looked like one of them. "Actually, yes. Why is George so strung up?"

"No idea," said Kris, eating another fork load.

Elliot scanned him, looking fur bullshit. "It's about me, isn't it? What did I do? Or what haven't I done?"

"You two are as angsty as a couple of teenagers." Kris smiled. "Think for awhile on those questions and come back to me, OK?"

Elliot toyed with the chicken, then shrugged. "Alright. Fine. But if it's major - if it's something I deserve to know, will you tell me?" he asked.

Kris looked up at him. After a moment he nodded. "Of course."

They kept eating, the cat purring about their ankles for tidbits. Elliot wasn't going to press the matter, but Kris set down his fork and pushed his plate away when it was still half full.

"Everyone who comes into this business comes into it riding tragedy," said Kris. His voice was a quiet murmur in the dark.

Elliot looked up, setting down his own fork. "Who was it?"

"Someone special to me," he said. "I loved her so much. More than I should have. I ran away to college. I went Ivy League, went to Harvard. I... got involved with a bad crowd when I was one a spring break trip to New Orleans. I found another girl there, or rather she found me. She wanted me to come away with her, but I told her a bit about my life. I had to reject her because she was insistent and I went back to Harvard leaving her scorned behind me. And she went to my old home."

Elliot puzzled over the information. "Camella Jackson and your father..."

"Everyone," said Kris, "was slaughtered."

"Who did you love?"

A smile twisted Kris's face. "People don't get it. I don't get it. You definitely won't get it. And I'm going to hell for it. So leave it at that."

"What did you do about the vampire?"

"I destroyed her and her entire coven," said Kris. "As slowly and as painfully as I could."

They finished in silence, both in their own worlds. Elliot cleared dishes while Kris put away the food. In the dark kitchen Elliot shut the dishwasher with a soft click. He turned to look at Kris, who put the containers away into the refrigerator.

"I'm going back to the station to look up possible suspects with that description. George needs to feed. I'll pick up some blood and throw it on ice for you so he doesn't kill you," said Kris, pulling on his jacket. "Tomorrow or the next night we'll find the asshole that did this to you both and finish the job."

"You need to sleep," said Elliot.

Kris closed his eyes, looking dead on his feet. In the pale light the circles under his eyes and the odd cast it lent to his skin made him look like a vampire. "No. Thinking about her always gives me nightmares - sleeping now could end with someone dying. That bitch pulled apart every warm memory of her."

He left without another word.

Elliot locked up the downstairs and turned off the lights. He headed upstairs for his room with the intention of unlocking the balcony and trying to sleep. He kept turning over Kris's words in his mind, and wondered if it was his mother or his sister he'd fallen in love with. Pity mixed with disgust turned in his stomach, but the pity won out. Kris had tried to run away and make himself normal, and had everything he'd cared about ripped from him. He couldn't sympathize completely, he couldn't force it to make sense in his mind, but he could sympathize about the forbidden lust part.

His room was dim from the little bit of light from the night outside. He turned the latch on the balcony and turned back to his bed. He flipped on his bedside light. Colors and familiar shapes that had loomed in the dark blinked into clarity. His Oriental room. It didn't take a psychologist to figure out why he'd themed it that way, however subconsciously. He ran his fingers over the bedspread - George had told him that the characters which decorated the comforter made up a saying from the Buddha about love.

"You, yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection," George had told him the other night as he'd smiled, looking about the cheery room. "Very feng shui. I like the passion wall," he'd stroked the wall behind the dark headboard. Elliot had kissed the back of his neck and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. "I take no credit. It was like that when I bought the place. I just... went with it." Their conversation took a much different turn after that.

Elliot looked about his room, his special "Zen" area and slipped onto the bed and put a pillow over his head. It was far too full right now. He needed to sleep, but Kris's pain kept nagging at him.

"Well, it might have been the maid," he said to himself.

"What might have been?"

Elliot jumped. He looked out from under the pillow. George was standing at the glass doors, looking like he was leaning on thin air. His feet were bare and he'd lost his jacket somewhere. Elliot swallowed hard - George was looking very sexy in his plain black sweater and dress pants. It contrasted sharply with his pale skin.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

George smiled and thumped his head a few times on the invisible barrier for emphasis.

"Oh. Come in."

He stepped inside, his hair windswept. Elliot secretly liked this new, shaggy look he'd been adopting. He bounced lightly onto the bed, his knees on either side of Elliot's feet.

"Kris gone?"

"Yeah he's getting a snack, if you know what I mean," he said.

There was a flash of pain across George's face, and it returned to the serene smile as if nothing was wrong. Elliot knew it had been a few days now - he was being masochistic now. He knew that George was in pain, but didn't let on.

"So what might have been the maid?"

Elliot tried not to look guilty or betraying. "Oh. We were watching Poirot on TV, but Kris had to go early. I went to bed," he lied.

"Ah," said George. He didn't look believing, but he didn't press the matter.

Elliot swallowed and stuffed the pillow underneath his head. Kris's secret was his to tell to whom he wanted to. Perhaps there wasn't as much enmity between the two of them as he'd thought, and why he'd been so accepting with them as a couple. As unorthodox as it had been, perhaps it hadn't been as black as his own.

George leaned down and kissed him, keeping his hands carefully on either side of him so he wouldn't touch Elliot's skin. His lips were cold but they started to get warm as they moved with his so slowly. Each brush was its own kind of agony, sending shoots of desire through his body.

"Unnh, George," he breathed, his head spinning.

"Just relax," said George in a voice he wasn't used to. It was the new George, a hard mixing of lost innocence and dark hunger. The unfamiliar George, who'd seen and felt too much. "I don't want this harder than it has to be."

Against his wishes Elliot's heart was pounding like a heavy bass drum. If he could hear it he knew George certainly could. He could feel each heavy pulse of blood in his veins, so hard and fast it felt like his head was on fire. Nervousness was an acid in his stomach.

"Please relax," he said, anxious now. Cold hands touched his chin, a stark contrast that wouldn't have been felt keener if it had been a snowball. He tilted his head, feeling his eyes mist and his stomach start to cramp.

George fiddled with something on the desk - a tube. Elliot frowned at it.

"To stop... bleeding."

Elliot whimpered, trying not to let on how scared he was. His hands were clenched into fists and a mantra of "do not run" was flying through his head.

George settled slowly onto him. He dragged his tongue across Elliot's tense neck, trying to stimulate it and draw a vein to the surface. It didn't take long before Elliot was wresting with his fear and a thin trickle of arousal worming its way down. Each swipe of the tongue made him shudder and whimper.

George's body shifted so that the tube was close on hand, and he was laying on his side, curved around Elliot's body. Elliot started to gasp, trying to decide which was more - terrified or turned on. The last time had been painful - now would be no different. George's cool hand slipped down his body as his lips began to caress and kiss his neck. His hand found the growing bulge in his pants and started to squeeze. Elliot squirmed but George stiffened. "Stop," he murmured. "Just stay still."

Elliot nodded, a quick jerk of his head. He looked down and his eyes drooped as George flicked open the button and opened his fly in a quick motion. He cried out - George's hand was freezing. But the feeling of his cool hand stroking him until he was fully erect kept him from withering. He manipulated all the right spots until Elliot had completely forgotten about the pain and could only think of the pleasure.

Two stinging points on his neck jolted him back to reality. There were soft, suckling noises and low moans of desire from George as his hand strayed, forgetting its task. It clenched the bed sheets and he was pressing hard into Elliot's body, his breathing coming in quick gasps around swallows.

Elliot tried not to wriggle from the pain but he was gasping anyway. He reached down and started to masturbate, trying to forget what was happening, what not so long ago had filled him full of revulsion. Plain mixed with pleasure and became something bittersweet and he lost himself in its waves.

There was a rubbing on his neck and velvety, warm swipes of something wet lashed across his throat and shoulder. George was licking him. There was a pop as the tube closed and George sat up and straddled Elliot, who was still masturbating. George removed his hand.

"You OK?" he asked. His mouth was clean and there was no outright indication anything had happened, but... his cheeks seemed a little more flushed, his eyes were more vibrant than he'd ever seen them before.

Elliot nodded. "Much better. Don't feel too bad, either."

"I don't know how I stopped," George admitted his voice soft. "I could have killed you. And part of me... wanted to. Kris should have been here."

"You love me," said Elliot, sitting up. He pulled George into a soft kiss that grew more demanding. "And you're wearing too much clothing. Take it off."

"Yes sir."

Elliot helped him. The black sweater pooled with his dress shirt on the ground and Elliot busied himself with exploring George's neck and chest, kissing and nipping, though the skin was much more firm than his. George threw his head back and groaned and Elliot wondered what he was feeling, wondered whether or not he was feeling pheromones and chemicals, or something else. He lashed his tongue down the centre of his chest and over his new, tight abs to his pants. He smiled to discover his erection and with a quick flick undid the button and fly and with a little help pulled his pants and briefs off.

The cool skin felt strange on his lips and tongue, but his skin tasted sweet. George moaned as he kissed around his thighs.

"Elliot, please," he gasped, running his fingers through his short hair.

Elliot smiled, kissing until George was shaking with need. He wrapped his mouth around his erection and George cried out, his back arching. He fell back onto the bed, his hands reaching down and squeezing his shoulders. Elliot grunted in pain.

He pulled away. He crawled over top of him, kissing his way up and chuckling at George's soft whimpers of desire.

"Nothing like a good tease, eh?" he asked, kissing him.

George snarled. In a quick movement he had Elliot on his back. There was a loud rip.

"HEY!"

"Now I owe you a whole outfit," said George, tossing the scraps on the floor. He spun another tube in his hands. Elliot frowned at it. "Something else."

George crawled over him, curving his body to match Elliot's. Hot and cold pressed together. Elliot moaned at pressure, gasping at the desperate touches. He thrust up into George's hips, rubbing against him, biting down on the hard flesh of George's neck.

"I want you," Elliot growled. George let out a shaky breath in response. George's cool hands left trails of fire across his shoulders and chest. "Need to fuck you." George shifted down and took his cock in his mouth. Elliot felt like he was burning alive.

The tube popped. Elliot shuddered at the feeling of slick hands caressing him. George's body was flushing, getting warm, a faint reminder of what he used to be. George raised up, sliding Elliot lower onto the pillows. Elliot wasn't entirely sure what he was doing, but he used one hand to guide himself in as George lowered himself down.

The pressure made his cry turn into a gargled moan. George froze on top of him for a moment, his eyes burning bronze, and the two of them began to move together. Their lips met. George's hands squeezed at his sides and their lovemaking grew faster, harder. Elliot barely noticed the pain of George's strength, and the dull crunch of the headboard breaking under strong hands.

They kissed furiously. "Ell. Iot. You. Don't. Know. How. Good - AHHH!" Elliot's hand found his groin, stroking furiously. This last bit of stimuli was enough and George hit the edge, rocking back out of Elliot's arms.

"God Above! George!" Elliot cried as the pressure increased around his cock. He spilled into his lover, breathing raggedly, his eyes rolled back, unable to focus or control himself.

George slumped over top of him, pulling away. They were two entities again. Elliot mewled as George curved to his body, his chest deceptively warm. With a quick tug and a swipe he pulled the comforter over them both. He kissed his throat and sighed.

"I love you," he whispered. There was no response - Elliot was already asleep. Smiling, George leaned back into his warm embrace.


	12. Another Piece

Chapter Twelve - Another Piece

He felt his eyes flash. A delicious, almost orgasmic feeling accompanied it, when the bright light gave away the darkness lurking inside. Around the corner his Lexus idled, Thomas at the wheel. He could do this with a car - steal anyone's and do the job - but he needed this. A little something, a little dig, at the Black Queen. He rarely passed up the opportunity to feel the life leave a body.

Huang had of course spoken to Wilkes and found out a description. With his mind too weak and soft he had to go by another means to track him down without using the link. It was futile - he'd need it no matter what the description. When he was out and about pretending to be a vile little human he masked his scent very well so that other vampires wouldn't notice him. He was invisible, able to blend in with the vermin and move about in their culture and strike when he wished. The link was all Huang had, and when he accessed it he'd crush his mind with a twist of his fingertips. Huang may have shown unprecedented resilience, but he wasn't _that_ strong.

It was time to separate him from the Black King - his Black King. He was so eagerly anticipating that delicious moment when he'd get to taste his blood. _Vampyr Custodis -_ and one who smelled better than Thomas.

China Town was a bustle of orange and yellow lights, gleaming store-fronts with gold signs and Oriental Lions painted all over them. He followed a girl whose scent was much like Huang's had been as a human, deep, rich with accents of honey and chocolate. Her hair was long, cascading over a pink windbreaker. He hated women - despised them. But this was necessary. If Huang detected his handiwork it could make him very angry indeed and cause him to access the link.

He'd already broken the lights near an alley. His eyes flicked across the faces of the few on the streets, repeatedly zeroing in on her as the moment neared.

The woman was nearly at the store she was making for, and was just stepping into the pool of darkness.

With a grin that flashed in the darkness he stepped up next to her.

"Jennifer Huang?" he asked.

TTTT

George had gone into trance around four and let his mind float, bobbing amongst the currents and floating down the river around eddies and whitecaps and through the cool, easy going flows. His mind relaxed - he could almost imagine every little wrinkle in his brain just smoothing out. Maybe going flat like a pancake in its disuse. Stretching out on his little raft on his little river of the mind he relaxed and looked high up into the sky where the synapses were clouds, perhaps, flickering electric purple light amongst themselves.

Single-minded again _(human,_ he reminded himself) he let himself think about the information that had been given him from Gregory Wilkes and the brief conversation about it in the car.

_"Well?" asked Kris._

_"Well what?" asked George, whose mind was more full of thoughts of mortality and brutality than on who did this to him._

_"Did we learn anything?"_

_"That the man we're after has wavy blonde hair and attractive features, and when he's displaying his inner nature his eyes are gold," said Elliot._

_George stared at the back of his head. _

_"It's not a lot, but it's something," said Elliot, shrugging. "Not much luck we'll catch him legally anyway. Maybe an operative knows someone like that?"_

_Kris grinned. "Sometimes I think I like you Elliot. Sure."_

George sighed. Blonde, gold eyes, attractive. The words _blond and attractive_ summed up a few people he and Elliot knew in the office, forensics, and otherwise. Gold eyes - well he remembered that dimly himself. The dark hallway, the sound of Toby's shriek and the snap of bones. _And those golden eyes, luminescent in the shadow._

His eyes focused on the ceiling he'd been staring at. The light had changed and shifted. He turned to look at the clock. 6:57. Time to get up.

He bounded up and started to look for clothes. He had a small reserve here and work clothes were scanty. He pulled on a dress shirt and one of his favourite sweater vests and a pair of clean trousers. He frowned at the absence of shoes. They were in Kris's car - not a handy place for his shoes to be. Not that he needed them - he could run across glass and wouldn't get a scratch. But they were required for social decorum. He pulled on socks and decided that if no one looked too closely his running shoes downstairs would do well enough.

Downstairs there were smells of coffee, something fruity like breakfast cereal and milk, and the scent of another person. Gabby.

There were sounds coming from the living room. Thumps and bangs. George poked his head into the living room and was surprised to find that all of the furniture had been pushed up around the walls, leaving a wide area open between them. Elliot and Gabby were sparring. He supposed, as he watched the two of them, that Gabby was playing 'vampire' and Elliot was supposed to be using his skills to bring her down. So far, he was losing.

With a quick movement the petite girl was on him, using his own centre of balance to do a complicated sort of throw down using her legs, which were wrapped around his head. Elliot miss-stepped and hit the ground with a heavy thud.

"How did you do that?" he wheezed.

"I used your balance against you and twisted your head down to where I wanted it," she chirped.

Elliot grunted. "And that's how vampires fight?"

"No," she said, stretching. "That's just how I fight. Now that we're warmed up let's go for the real thing."

George couldn't help but smile at his lover, lying on the ground and panting. "You know Elliot, you're going to keep losing if you're too afraid to fight back."

Elliot cast a glare up at him.

"Ohhh I see," said Gabby with an evil sort of grin. "Afraid to hit a girl, huh? On your feet, big boy."

Elliot let out a mewling sort of whimper. George chuckled to himself, slipped on his shoes and went out the door, calling over his shoulder, "be back later!"

Outside the morning smelt fresher. A low pressure system was bringing in clean, crisp wind from the north. He glanced at the sky, a mixture of large fluffy clouds and azure sky. It would be a nice day.

As he headed for the bus stop he noticed a man get out Elliot's car and start to follow down the street. Easily identified with his limp on his left foot and his broad, weather-beaten face. Kevin Burgess, still watching him on his protective detail. George knew that protective detail wouldn't help much if he was attacked, but he let him trail him like a heavy footed shadow. Kevin was quiet and serious and preferred not to be spoken to. George didn't mind and let him stand a few feet away at the bus stop, feeling his eyes on the back of his head.

The light was too-bright. He fished sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on, feeling a bit like a photosensitive crack head and wondering if he looked suspicious or not.

The trip to Manhattan was delayed a bit by a stalled bus in their lane, but he arrived at his office with the FBI around quarter after eight. His cell phone buzzed.

He glanced at it as he stepped through the doors and stopped in shock. There was an 'oomph' behind him as someone collided with him. George barely noticed the impact, but sidestepped with a hasty "sorry."

The man - a heavy man with at least three inches on him - looked at him with an amazed expression and stomped off to the elevators.

He snapped the phone open. "Wei," he said, backing into the wall of the lobby. Burgess stopped about fifteen feet away and pretended to consult a list of floors and names.

"George, it's your mother," came the rapid fired Mandarin on the line.

"Hello, mother," he said. "How are you? It's been a long time."

"I don't want to get into it now, George. It's your sister. Jennifer. She was hit by a car last night."

He sat down on a bench, not even noticing he'd stopped breathing and blinking. Jennifer had been the only one who maintained any resemblance of contact with him for the past fifteen years. Christmas cards, mostly. His parents had disowned him when he came out to them. He hadn't seen her in a year, but...

"When? How?" he asked finally, trying to fight down the squeezing sensation in his heart.

"Around eleven," she replied, "hit-and-run. The police are investigating, but they don't have much hope. She went out for cigarettes and milk for your father and I..."

She started to sob quietly on the other end of the phone. "Is there anything you need, mother?"

"We have it covered. Since we have little family, we are cremating tomorrow. Family only. George your father and I messed up raising you, and we haven't spoken in so long, but please-"

"I'm proud of who I am," he said, without any of the venom he'd originally meant. "But yes, give me a time and place."

He didn't need paper to remember. After a quick good-bye she hung up. He snapped his phone shut, feeling drained. His body swayed uncomfortably from side to side. What was happening? Jennifer? Really? And so... suddenly?

Immortality leered at him, grinning a many-fanged smile.

_Everyone I love is going to die one day. And I will not._

"Dr. Huang?" Burgess asked, taking an awkward step towards him.

Greif weighing like a stone George walked past him and through the metal detectors. Burgess remained behind. He tried to control his expression in the elevator. There were no tears, just this ripping sensation in his heart. His face wanted to twist but he couldn't let it. Not yet. He felt his emotions smooth out - there would be time for the grief tonight.

On the fourteenth floor George headed for his office. The scent of the vampire was even more distant, even more sanded over. A new smell was in the office, one he hadn't catalogued before. It reminded him a little of Elliot. Not that the scent was the same but it held the same sort of... appeal.

He looked around, mildly interested. He felt thirsty. The burn rose with a dull sort of interest, sort of like the munchies.

He worked a little in his office, taking a quick coffee break only once to hold up appearances. It was more difficult than he thought - Jennifer was at the back of his mind. They'd emailed a little that year, were planning to get together...

He shook his head to clear it. He made his way to the photocopier in the late morning. He still had other cases to work, other victims to help other than himself.

The scent started to rise again, like cinnamon. He licked his lips and felt a pressure in his gums. He turned the corner to the copy centre, directly into a woman who was turning into the hall. She started and began to slip, but George caught her by the arm and steadied the teetering pile of copies she was holding. Her scent registered with him and he had to keep from crushing her arm on a sudden impulse.

She gasped, backing up. "I'm sooo sorry," she said.

"Not a problem," George smiled. The burn was hot now. She smelled almost as good as Elliot - if he'd met her in a dark alley it would have taken a lot to walk away.

"Wait... Dr. Huang?" she asked, tilting her head to the side.

George studied her. Blonde hair, blue eyes, light build... but the blue eyes were the exact shape and shade of Elliot's. "Maureen?" he guessed.

"Ohmigosh, Dr. Huang! It's been a long time! I think I haven't seen you in over a year!"

"Hey," he said. "Barbecue, right?"

"Yup!" she said, adjusting the copies again.

"So what are you doing here?" he asked.

"I'm a temp! I'm majoring in psychology and criminal studies! I'm trying to become a profiler."

George listened to her chatter as they approached the coffee area. He was still thinking about how easily he could have killed her, and was noticing how she moved her hands just like Jennifer did, and how she talked ten miles a minute like her. He poured himself a half-cup and pretended to sip while she munched celery and sipped coffee, talking about school and how much she was enjoying the atmosphere there at the FBI offices. The two thoughts started to blur in on each other.

Alain Rictor slipped into the coffee room. His eyes were almost dead, like his mind was elsewhere. His bland smell started to mix with Maureen's. George examined his features, feeling a shred of anxiety in his body. Blonde hair, attractive, _with too many casual interjections about a world he shouldn't understand._

Alain looked over when he noticed George's gaze. His blue eyes flickered to Maureen and he smiled sympathetically at George. He stumbled, missing a step when the linoleum turned into carpet, and turned to the coffee maker.

The tension eased. _Vampires don't stumble._ He felt a mixture of disappointment and relief as he turned back to Maureen.

"So that's why I've been so keen to get into this," she finished.

George smiled at her. "Of course."

"I heard you were attacked," she said, shutting the lid on her Tupperware.

"Yes," he replied, trying to find the appropriate look.

She looked sympathetic and worried. "You OK?"

"I'm doing well. I've got your dad keeping an eye on me and everyone is very supportive," he said.

She tensed. "Dad's doing good then?"

"Yes," he replied. "Why?"

She shrugged. "No reason. I don't really care. After all, it's not like he cares."

A prickle of a human memory. Elliot had told him Maureen was taking everything the hardest. She refused money from him for college and was working hard for all of her scholarships and was working at a gas station. She was the only one without regular contact.

"He cares," said George. "He's just bad at showing it."

Maureen sighed, rolling her eyes, bellying her age. "Yeah, tell me about it."

She went back to work shortly after and George went for his office, debating about calling and telling Elliott about it. He heard Alain behind him as he entered his office and left the door open.

"Hey there," said Alain. George sat down and started on another report.

"Hello," said George, more warmly than normal. With the dispelling of his suspicions his feelings had improved a little.

"Sorry, Maureen was chatting everyone's ears off for days. She was getting better," he said.

George shrugged. "I don't mind. I'm a friend of the family, so she had a good reason then."

Alain nodded. "Stabler. Right. Well, have fun," he said, taking a pull on his coffee he turned and left.

He sighed and hung his head. Jennifer's face started to loom at him in his mind.

He got up and grabbed his coat. Maybe his body was inhuman, but his heart wasn't.

TTTT

Alain watched him go, still clutching a hot coffee cup in a cold hand. He sensed the pain that was poorly masked on George's face and itched to find out what was the matter, but knew it was impossible. He'd just have to wait.

George was enigmatic. He knew with a few quick and decisive actions he'd be able to find out everything going on in his head, but it was cheating and it would reveal too much than it would solve. His secret was safe and sound... for now.

He felt a wave of nausea. Damn coffee.

Maureen Stabler breezed past him lost in her own dark little thoughts. Her father, he guessed.

She smiled at him as she walked by, a little cloying. Probably thought he was attractive. He hated women. The nausea persisted.

He set the coffee down and felt bile rising in his throat. Stepping around a colleague he slipped into a bathroom. He just made it into the stall when he heaved. Coffee and a cookie that someone had made left much of the way it had gone down. His head swam.

"I'll be so glad when this is over," he muttered to himself, massaging his stomach.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket.. He flipped it open, already knowing who it was. Only one person had his number anyway.

"Yes, my one?" he asked as softly as he could.

"Almost all of the arrangements are made. We can say good-bye to the next rook."

Alain grinned, feeling his gums prickle and a heavy shudder fall down his spine. "No need. I think we have what we want, and a new, more interesting piece fell into play. I'll meet you soon - I think I'm leaving here early today."

He snapped the phone shut, feeling the gold and the darkness flare.


	13. Under the Lights

A/N: Ahh! Crazy that this didn't take as long as I thought. Hope you enjoy. This chapter's all about Elliot, and it's been awhile since we had one of those. I keep taking crazy breaks from writing, but I'm hoping the next will be up within the week.

Chapter Thirteen - Under the Lights

He could hear the dull thuds before he was anywhere near the place. Reverberating through the cement and brick walls bass throbbed. The few lone wolf smokers outside shuffled, puffs of cigarette smoke curling and flowing above their heads as they moved unconsciously to the beat provided from the club inside. Elliot followed Kris and Gabby who were about ten steps ahead. Kris was bundled up in a long, dark trench coat with dress pants and shoes. He was still dressed from work that day, and was feeling tired from the caseload dropped in his lap - another detective had had to be assigned to the squadron because of a mass rape in a biker bar near Alphabet City. Elliot was glad he was off - hated the gang cases like that. Never knew when to stop looking over your shoulder. His eyes flickered over Gabby in appreciation at _her_ get up - tight skirt with too many zippers and ringlets in a poisonous green plaid, tight, gothic leggings and tall boots. Her top - a black corset - was hidden beneath a very gothic coat that hugged her waist hard and was covered with chains. He wondered how she'd fight with that on, and he was marvelling over how she had her tools of the trade hidden away in that skimpy, tight jacket. He supposed the boots were hiding them, and wondered if George would be mad at him for looking at her butt, and what his policy on window shopping was.

He was dressed casually. He had a flashlight concealed in one arm and a way-too-heavy steel, wooden cored stake in his other, and his sidearm pressing uncomfortably in the small of his back. The entire day had been nothing but getting the crap kicked out of him by Gabby, but once he'd shown he wasn't _entirely_ afraid of hitting a girl he'd made progress in leaps instead of stumbles. Now he was covered with bruises and his head gave the occasional throb, but he'd taken some Tylenol and was trying to focus. Really.

The night was beaten back a little by the neon signs and the orange lights. George was out there somewhere in a foul mood. He hadn't been able to say why he came home early from work, but he had shown up and borrowed him from Gabby for an hour. Some of the bruises were from him and their hard love-making, and his chest was aching from a sharp bite that was stinging from the antiseptic filling.

"Elliot," Kris called.

He shook his head and jogged to catch up. Kris and Gabby disappeared down a very narrow alley light with white lights. He followed, glancing at the filth encrusted ground. Gum, spit, cigarette butts and pigeon shit. He wondered when the last time someone had cleaned it up. Up a small set of stairs the green lights light up two entrances with massive bouncers glaring down at them.

Kris stepped past the first bouncer and went to the further door. "Tickets?" rumbled the six foot seven, four hundred pound behemoth in a tight black "STAFF" shirt. Kris motioned him close. They had a whispered conversation that Elliot couldn't hear and the huge man nodded, the green lights making his sweaty, bald head glisten sickly.

He let the three of them pass. Another security guard watched them but didn't pat them down. Gabby's hair - now a shiny new purple - seemed to pulse in the light. The dull throbs of bass had turned sharpened. Now guitars and bass and the crash of drums and symbols surrounded everything. A heavy metal band thrashed it out on the stage of the club, long hair flying and the lead singer cried into his mike. Elliot was thankful for the tip-off on earplugs.

_"High in the sky, Where eagles fly!"_

A mass of bodies nodded, stomped, jumped and moshed to the music. Some pumped their fists in the air and some were a jumble of elbows and kicks as they thrashed, screaming into the air. Cigarette and marijuana smoke mixed in the air with the smells of sweat and alcohol.

_"Morgray the dark, Enters the throne!"_

Elliot remembered the warning from Kris earlier as he manoeuvred the throng.

"This guy is a mosquito," he said. "When we get them we're looking for a skinny, average height kid that's biting the necks of whomever is dancing there - he's a leech, but also a well of information. Since he just picks around I let him live in exchange for information. I know it's gross, but he has connections to the rest of the underworld that I need. We'll threaten him a bit and he'll spill whatever we need to know. And look out - you'll smell nice to him."

_"Open wide the gate, friend. The king will come, blow the horn and praise the highest Lord!"_

Sweat soaked and crazed the crowd thrashed and screamed under the pulsing lights. Elliot craned his neck back and fourth looking for someone who screamed "vampire!" when he looked at them. Red to blue, red to green, the blood coloured walls and glass flickered. When he stared at a glass window the backs of the lights created demon eyes, a crowd of shadows whose eyes blinked and disappeared, watching the humans dance in their court. Elliot shuddered.

_"Who'll bring the dawn. He's the new god, In the palace of steel! Persuade the fate of everyone, The chaos can begin. Let it in!"_

Gabby was chatting up the bartender and Kris was shoving through the crowd, his fierce eyes flicking back and forth. Elliot joined the fight, pushing through the bodies, eyes wary for an attack or for someone being preyed on.

_"So many centuries, So many Gods, We were the prisoners of our own fantasy. But now we are marching, Against these Gods! I'm the wizard, I will change it all!"_

He was skimming his eyes over a couple making out when he noticed they were the least likely couple imaginable - a heavy, six and a half foot man with long, draping hair and a beard was kneeling and a skinny, extremely pale skinned man had nestled his face almost tenderly into his neck. The crowd began to roar, singing along with the band.

_"VALHALLA! DELIVERANCE! WHY HAVE YOU EVER FORGOTTEN ME?"_

Elliot pulled out the flashlight and aimed a kick at his shoulder. He grunted - it was like kicking a sack of rocks. The kid flailed back, a few drops of blood sprayed out. Kris was elbowing his way through the crazed audience. Gabby was lightly dodging the thrashing people towards him.

His skin glowed luminescent in the pulsing lights. His eyes were red - blood red. Elliot's heart thudded. The heavy victim hit the ground but Gabby had already made it to his side and produced a small tube of antiseptic filler.

Elliot had more important things to worry about. The vampire was once eighteen and was wearing a torn, faded Iron Maiden T-shirt, long hair pulled back into a ponytail. He had bared his teeth and flung himself at him, fangs glinting in the lights. The heavy bodies pushed, oblivious. Elliot absorbed the pounce and body checked him into the wall. He clenched his flashlight in one hand and brought it up, clicking on the switch. The UV beam hit one pale, exposed arm and he screeched, his body seizing up. Elliot winced at the smell of burning - a mixture of sulphur and burning hair as his skin turned into charcoal.

Elliot pinned him, flicking the switch off, focusing the flashlight on his face but not turning it on. Kris was at his other side. Gabby was shielding them as best she could as several staff members pulled the victim away. The bouncers didn't look at the two of them, and the dancers were too absorbed in the song.

"Hello Mosquito? Or is it Elser? Or Diedrich, I'm sorry I'm not caught up," Kris yelled over the roar of the guitars.

Elliot glanced around nervously at the people thumping and dancing around. A few people had turned to stare. Security came around and waved people away. Elliot wondered how much Kris was paying them.

"Sh-shut it Brown, I'm allowed to feed here!"

Elliot was surprised by the teenage, nasal voice that came from him. He was expecting something more sinister.

"When I let you. You're disgusting, you know that?"

"So you tell me. What do you want to know? And get that damn light out of my face!"

At a nod from Kris Elliot relaxed his grip. The vampire was weaker than George but Elliot had the feeling that it would take very little force for it to snap one of his arms. He lowered the flashlight.

"So what do we call you tonight, leech?" Kris asked.

He glowered. "I've taken a more modern name. Brian."

Elliot noticed a hint of a German accent. He wondered how hold he was.

"Let's take it somewhere quiet," Kris offered, gripping Brian's arm and pulling him towards the bar at the back, away from the ground floor and the mosh pit. Gabby followed close behind, her eyes flickering at the bystanders, looking for danger.

The bar was religious themed - Ohm's, crosses, ahnk's, the crescent moon, the Star of David, even strangely enough FPS were displayed all over the walls. The booths were plywood, maybe getting reupholstered. Kris shoved Brian into the corner of one and sat down next to him. Elliot slid in across from him and Gabby stood a short ways away, still looking for danger.

Brian glared at Elliot. "You smell too good to be allowed," he said, a hint of a snarl on his voice.

"Thank you?" he said. He clicked the flashlight on the table, lighting a spot next to his hand. Brian flinched and pulled his hand back.

"I said I'd cooperate, now I'm cooperating!" he complained. "Put that damn thing away!"

Kris shook his head at Elliot and turned in his seat. "I need any information you can give me on a possible Ancient in New York. We've got three listed in our archives and I want to know if there's any on the down low. Blonde hair, gold eyes, meticulous, control freak, likes men."

Brian's stare never wavered from Elliot. His fangs were still out. Elliot knew where his mind was.

"You mean the one who's been eating _Schweine?_" asked Brian.

"Yes."

"Hmm... let me think. Blonde hair, gold eyes... he nibbled on the psychiatrist didn't he? The Chinaman?"

Elliot swallowed hard, his hand clenched. He very much wanted to shine the light on the bastards face. Kris shook his head again.

"Yes."

Brian played with a leftover plastic cup. "Who are your recorded Ancients?"

"Gabriel Eastwyke, Yoshiro Yamasuta, and Petra Herrman."

Brian crushed the cup. His stare never wavered. "I haven't fed in awhile. He smells so _mouthwatering. _Let me _trinken."_

Kris punched him solidly in the side of the head. Elliot didn't think it hurt, but Brian flinched anyway.

"Just a bite. For the information you want?"

"You'll give it to me so I don't turn you to ash where you sit," said Kris. There was a metallic thud. The tip of a stake slipped onto the table, peeping threateningly out of Kris's coat sleeve.

Brian gulped. He seemed to be calculating the odds of survival now. His eyes flickered back and forth between them now, but his gaze held on Kris.

"His real name is Soren Alrik, he's from Scandanavia. He hails from the early fifteen hunderds, I _think._ He has other names. He prefers to be called Master. He has a servant, a big brick of a man named Thomas, smells like that guy," he tossed his head at Elliot. "I've never heard him called by his real name, nor by his alias's. I'm not aware of what his current name is, although his last one was Faulkner."

Kris smiled. "Wasn't so hard. You're sure this is the guy?"

Brian nodded, rubbing hard on the crook of his elbow. The ash began to flake off revealing the pale Kevlar skin beneath.

A light concealed in Kris's coat flashed on, lighting up on Brian's left arm this time. There was another acrid flash of smoke and Elliot leaned back in distaste. Brian yelled in pain, but the few patrons who weren't dancing were drunk and stoned out of their mind and didn't approach. The bartender looked as though he was used to this. Elliot wondered how much they knew.

"For christ's sake, Brown _I TOLD YOU EVERYTHING!"_

Kris punched Brian soundly again, reinforcing the food chain, and slipped out of the booth. He went over to Gabby. Elliot was getting out, feeling that red stare on him, when Brian spoke.

"You smell so fucking _good!_ All I want to do is drink you dry!"

"If you think that's warming me to you you've got another thing comin'," said Elliot.

"Your vampire - the chink - he's lucky even if you two are a couple of fags. I would give anything to have someone like you to feed off of."

Elliot raised the flashlight. Brian winced.

Kris waved him over. He left the pale, whining thing behind him.

"Let's get going," said Kris. "I want to start looking up histories. Soren Alrik... I've never even _heard_ that name before. Not even close."

"Is that normal?"

"We study the families, or rather coven's of vampires to trace bloodlines. There's ancient's in New York because they normally employ feeders. They don't have to feed more than every few months, and don't even need much then. Some do it like they feed an addiction, but it's not necessary. The other ancient coven's here, or specifically their leaders, are well known and aren't on any hit lists because they don't kill people. Not that I wouldn't _mind_ killing them, but we've made something resembling a pact with them."

Elliot nodded. He glanced back at the table, but the whiney tick had already slipped back into the crowd of dancing people, possibly looking for a snack, more likely getting the hell away from Kris.

His cell phone buzzed. George.

Text Messages: (1) New.

_I'm home. I'm sorry. Need to talk._

Elliot flipped the phone shut.

"Listen, George is back..."

Kris nodded and the three of them headed for the exit. The night air smelt fresh after the inside of the club's tang of booze and sweat. They walked down the hallway, up against the wall as they passed other club-goers.

Elliot looked over at a small sound of frustration. Gabby's turquoise eyes had become unfocused and edgy. There was a color starting to seep in at the edges, something not-white, glowing, ethereal.

Kris followed his gaze to Gabby who was starting to take a few hard gulps of air.

"Go," he muttered.

Gabby looked over, her arms twitching like a heroin addict. "But-"

"Just go. I'll take him with me. Go."

She nodded. With a jerky bob of the head at Elliot she breezed down the alley into the night. When they came around the corner she was gone.

"Is she a v-"

"No," said Kris. "Something else."

Elliot frowned. "Is that why she's not all beat up?"

"Yep," he replied.

Elliot walked along behind him to the car wondering if he really wanted to know or not. It blinked twice in the hazy orange light. Elliot opened his door and glanced up as Kris did at the barely visible moon above the clouds.

George was waiting in the light of a candle in the bedroom. He was barefoot and shirtless, sitting cross legged on the ground. His hands were resting on his knees palms up and his eyes were closed. The flickering light made shadows play on the room and over the muscles on his chest. Elliot's breath caught in his throat.

_Damnit._

He stepped lightly over, wincing at the rub of his sock feet against the carpet and sat across from him. George didn't stir - he'd become a statue, a tribute to the Asiatic Monks following the Buddha. Feeling more than a little foolish Elliot followed suit, closing his eyes and laying his hands to his knees.

It was sort of peaceful sitting there, the light of the candle turning his eyelids orange, watching the black flicker about with the light through the membrane. He took slow breaths, hearing none from George across from him. The house creaked and settled around him. He could hear the fluffy beast Schmoo prowling about in the next room, playing with something.

Elliot thought back to some anger management courses he'd been forced into by the captain. He started focusing on the sound of the ceiling fan, drifting away into a safe house inside his mind. He wasn't angry, but it was relaxing. The days troubles and the aching bruises began to be forgotten.

_Vrrrr. Vrrrr. Vrrrr._

_Damnit._

"Not to be a bother, but your cell phone is vibrating," George murmured, breaking the silence.

Elliot opened his eyes to find George smiling at him, one eye peeked open like a lazy cat. He got up and left the room, his movement causing the flame to shudder. He glanced at the call ID, sighed, and answered it. He didn't want to have this conversation right now. He wanted George, and to be there for him.

"Hey," said the soft voice on the other end. There was shifting, like clothing or a bed in the background.

"Hey Liv," he said. "How's it going?"

"Not bad," she replied. "Just wondering how the forced time off was going."

"Productive. I'm exercising and, well... meditating," he said, glancing at the closed door.

"Meditating? Anger issues again?" she asked.

He wondered how much to tell. But if she was getting it on with Munch, he could start to gently lead her by the hand towards his new relationship. It would be a big revelation for her - maybe too big. She used to have a thing for him, and he had to admit he'd had one for her for a few years when he was with Kathy in the 'dry years' where she'd become less interested in sex and in him in general, leading up to the divorce.

"Actually... I'm meditating with George," he admitted.

He could see Olivia checking the clock in his mind. "At eleven at night?" she asked.

"He can't sleep... at his place," he finished lamely. Not too much info. "He's crashing in the guest room. He doesn't feel safe."

There was another shuffle. He heard a murmur in the background - a man's voice, but he couldn't tell if it were John's. "I understand. He feels safe with you. And he probably has a crush on you."

Elliot tried not to laugh. It was close. "I dunno."

"He might. He feels safe with you. You're protecting him. He _is_ gay, remember?"

"Yeah," he replied. "No matter. So to make feel calm he meditates and I was joining him."

Cold hands wrapped around his torso and he hissed. He hadn't even heard the bedroom door open or heard him walk up. He was just there, his arms around him, hard, muscular chest curved into his back.

"What?" she asked.

"Oh, cold tile in the kitchen," he said casually, trying to ignore the way George's hands were caressing his stomach.

There was that voice again in the background. _"Come back to bed."_ He could hear it clearly now, but not the tone. Might be John.

"Who was that?" he asked.

He could almost hear her blushing. "Um, don't worry about it. I gotta go, OK?"

"No prob."

"Bye," she said. More shuffling.

"Bye," he said, hanging up.

He slipped the cell phone into his jeans pocket. He turned around in George's arms and looked down into his eyes, a glittery, mischievous bronze. He leaned down and sighed as their lips worked together.

"Have a good, um... nap?"

"Yes," George breathed. "Come to bed."

Elliot's bruises protested, but other parts agreed with George. _Hmm._

He let himself be led into the bedroom. George was out of his clothes in a second. Elliot pulled off his shirt but it wasn't quick enough for George - he was pushed (thrown) onto the bed. His buckle was undone and everything below the belt was tossed onto the floor. Elliot could see the heat in George's body as his blood flowed through his arousal and his force of will.

They were kissing, George's hands flew over his body manipulating places Elliot never really considered before, pressure points that sent bolts of arousal through him.

_Damn the bruises anyway,_ he thought happily.

They twisted on the sheets gasping. George had become almost warm, his mouth felt like heaven. Elliot found the lube, rolled him on his stomach and slipped inside of him. He gasped, closing his eyes, his body shaking as he gave over to his need.

When it was done Elliot was panting. "I can't feel my legs," he complained.

George laughed, his hands playing with Elliot's stomach again. "Round two?"

"No," said Elliot, and sensed the disappointment. "I'm really banged up. Maybe give me more than a couple hours to recover."

George nodded absently, rolling away and sitting up in bed.

"Ungh," Elliot groaned. "Hey. Don't be upset. You've been weird today."

George snarled. "Why _shouldn't_ I be? I want what I can get before you die! I'm going to leave you one day! Or rather, _you'll_ leave _me._ You're not immortal, Elliot, not like me. You aren't _damned."_

Elliot sat up, his head spinning. It wasn't right to have a conversation like this right after sex. He was confused and all he wanted to do was sleep.

"Wha? What did I do?"

George sighed. "And after all that meditation, too."

He got up and walked out onto the balcony. Elliot considered just staying there and falling asleep but that wouldn't be worth anything - George would be angrier.

He groaned and rolled out of the bed and fished for pants, briefs - something - and pulled on his jeans. He stumbled out onto the balcony and sighed at the cool air. It felt good on his aching muscles. He knew better than to try and lay a reassuring hand on George - he was liable to get it ripped off.

He leaned onto the railing. "What, George? What's bugging you?"

George sighed. He looked over, his eyes melting from brown to bronze and back again. "Jennifer died."

Elliot tried to think of who Jennifer was but came up blank. He'd never heard George talk about one before.

"My sister. She was hit by a car. Hit and run, when she was out getting cigarettes for my parents. I haven't seen her in so long, but she was the only member of my family to still... give a shit."

Elliot frowned. "Hit and run?"

"Yeah."

He looked down into his back yard. A cat was foraging prowling down the fence. He stared at it and it glanced up, its freaky reflective eyes shining back up.

George rubbed the back of his head. "I'm immortal. No one else is. I'll keep going and everyone I love will die."

Elliot didn't know what to say. He took George's arm gently and tried to draw him over. George came willingly, so Elliot took him back to the bed and held him.

After maybe fifteen minutes they made love again, slowly this time and Elliot relished the moment he brought George to a shuddering climax. They hid beneath the covers and caressed and kissed each other. He tried to be reassuring but now all he could think of was twenty no even only ten years from now he'd be greying and George would be as eternal as he was now.

As he drifted off he thought of Alrik Soren, wondering who he was and if he'd ever get to see him take the last step to the world beyond. His dreams were dark.


End file.
